FORD 


/  • 

d-^ 


ANGELES 


SHORTY  McCABE 
GETS  THE  HAIL 


BY 

SEWELL   FORD 


NEW  YORK 
EDWARD  J.  CLODE 


CePXBIGHT,   1018,   1919, 

SEWELL  FORD 


COPYRIGHT,  1919,  BY 

EDWARD   J.    CLODE 

All  rights  reserved 


PRINTED    IN   THE   UNITED   STATES    OF  AMERICA 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  SHORTY  PICKS  A  COMER 1 

II.  SPEED  WORK  FOR  PIPKIN       .....  20 

III.  TOUCHING  ON  THE  KINNETS 39 

IV.  A  SIDE  BET  ON  BART 58 

V.  GUESSING  WRONG  ON  HERM 77 

VI.  AND  THEN,  THERE  WAS  TODD     ....  94 

VII.  SULLY  AT  A  SKIP  STOP 113 

VIII.  A  SLANT  AT  THE  COMERS       .....  131 

IX.  A  FEW  SHIFTS  BY  HOMEB     .  144 

X.  WHEN  BUDDY  BOY  CAME  BACK  .       .       .       .160 

XI.  A   FOLLOW-UP  ON   SNIPE       ......  175 

XII.  WTHEN  EDGAR  PLUS  FORGOT 193 

XIII.  SHORTY  ANSWERS  A  HATT. 209 

XIV.  SHORTY  IN  A  NEW  BILL 227 

XV.  WHAT  AUNT  ABBIE  HAS  COMING  .       .       .       .  248 

XVI.  SITTING  IN  WITH  JIMMY       .       .       .       ..      .261 

XVII.  "TRAZE  BEANS"  FOR  BUCKY       ....  279 

XVIII.  LTTTLE  SULLY  COMES  THROUGH   .  295 


O 


SHORTY  McCABE  GETS 
THE  HAIL 


SHORTY   PICKS  A   COMER 

1MUST  say  he  was  an  unpromisin'  speci- 
men.   He  wore  his  cheek  bones  high  and 
his  forehead  low,  and  the  only  name  any- 
body in  Company  B  seemed  to  have  for  him, 
from  the  Captain  down,  was  Joe  Pants. 

Not  that  I  noticed  him  'specially  at  first. 
In  fact,  I  expect  they  had  him  doin'  kitchen 
police  most  of  the  time  for  a  while  there  when 
I  was  startin'  the  new  rookies  in  on  the  calis- 
thenics and  glove  drill.  Oh,  yes,  I'd  been  doin' 
a  lot  of  this  camp  work  since  the  War  Depart- 
ment discovered  that  Shorty  McCabe  was  just 
as  willin'  to  do  his  part  as  anybody  else. 
Course,  they'd  had  my  offer  filed  away  for 
more'n  a  year.  But  you  know  how  it's  been. 
There  was  so  many  of  us  high  talented  people 
knockin'  around  that  some  of  us  was  bound  to 
be  overlooked. 

1 


2       SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

Anyway,  I  guess  I  made  up  for  lost  time,  for 
there  in  June  and  July,  when  the  new  draft  was 
comin'  in  so  strong,  I'd  leave  the  Physical  Cul- 
ture Studio  three  afternoons  a  week  to  go  out 
and  show  these  buddin'  Fritz  destroyers  how  to 
breathe  from  below  the  belt  and  what  their 
hands  was  made  for  besides  shovelin'  in  rations. 
And  say,  before  the  Quartermaster  had  fitted 
'em  out  with  any  uniforms  but  blue  overalls 
they  wasn't  an  impressive  lookin'  lot  of  democ- 
racy savers,  take  it  from  me.  So  it's  no 
wonder,  with  different  squads  of  a  hundred 
lined  up  before  me  every  half-hour,  I 
didn't  single  out  this  Joe  Pants  bird  right 
away. 

Even  when  I  did  it  was  because  he  seemed  a 
little  more  stupid  than  the  rest  in  catchin'  on 
to  what  I'm  tryin'  to  make  'em  do. 

"Say,  you!  Fifth  man  from  the  right!"  I 
calls  out.  But  I  don't  make  any  connection  at 
all. 

"Ah,  let's  have  the  numbers!"  I  goes  on. 

"One — two — three — four .  Stop!  Yes, you. 

ITh-huh.  This  is  all  for  your  benefit.  Sorry 
to  disturb  your  standee  nap,  but  let's  see  if  we 
can't  get  this  right.  Can't  you  breathe  with 
your  mouth  shut?  Try  it.  You  won't  smother 
or  anything  with  the  goulash  trap  closed. 
There!  Seef  Now  from  way  down,  with  your 
shoulders  back.  Ah,  for  the  love  of  soup !  You 


SHORTY  PICKS  A  COMER  3 

ain't  a  fish,  are  you?  All  you  moved  then  was 
your  gills." 

Honest,  I  must  have  wasted  more  eloquence 
on  that  one  peanut-head  than  on  all  the  rest  of 
the  squad. 

"Cap'n,"  I  asks  confidential  after  they're 
dismissed,  "who  is  this  pet  of  yours  that's  so 
intelligent  from  the  ankles  down?" 

"Oh,  that  one!"  says  Captain  Martin. 
"Why,  that's  Joe  Pants.  He's  a  Pole,  I  think." 

"Guess  that  accounts  for  it,"  says  I. 
"Wooden  all  the  way  from  the  roof.  Maybe 
you'll  make  a  soldier  out  of  him,  too,  but  I'd 
save  him  for  a  newel  post." 

The  Captain  grins.  "The  sad  part  of  it  is, 
Professor,"  says  he,  "that  I've  got  to  make  a 
soldier  of  him. ' ' 

"You're  some  wizard  if  you  do,"  says  I. 

At  that  Joe  might  not  have  been  so  much 
worse  than  a  lot  of  the  others.  Part  of  it,  as 
I  finds  out  later,  is  due  to  the  fact  that  he  don't 
understand  English  very  well.  Then  he's  such 
a  pie-faced  lookin'  gink.  With  that  Swiss 
cheese  complexion,  and  the  dull,  wide-set  eyes, 
and  the  bat  ears  juttin'  out  from  the  side  of 
his  head  like  they  was  stuck  on  as  an  after- 
thought, he  looks  almost  as  human  as  something 
carved  on  a  pipe. 

And  yet  it  couldn't  have  been  more'n  three 
weeks  later,  when  I'd  advanced  the  squad  to 


exercise  with  the  soft  mitts,  that  I'm  consider- 
able jarred  at  seein'  this  Private  Pants  steam  in 
a  half-arm  jolt,  just  the  way  I'd  showed  him,  the 
weight  followin'  the  blow,  and  lift  a  big  husk 
opposite  clean  off  his  feet.  First  off  I  thought 
it  must  have  been  an  accident,  but  a  few  minutes 
later  blamed  if  he  don't  shoot  over  another  one 
just  as  destructive.  That's  when  I  begun  to  get 
curious. 

''Good  work,  Joe!"  I  sings  out.  "Here! 
[Wait  a  minute.  Gimme  a  pair  of  them  pillows, 
Sergeant.  Now,  Mr.  Pants,  shove  one  of  them 
short  ones  in  at  me  so  I  can  feel  if  it  really 
has  the  stuff  behind  it." 

Well,  it  had.  And  I  want  to  say  it  was  just 
as  well  I  was  quick  in  blockin'  it  off. 

' '  Listen,  Joe, ' '  says  I.  ' '  Where  'd  you  get  all 
that?" 

Joe  hunches  his  shoulders  but  otherwise  from 
that  don't  impart  any  information. 

"I  mean,"  says  I,  "where  you  been  working 
— what 's  your  j  ob ! " 

"Oh,  job!"  says  he,  his  pale  blue  eyes  brigh- 
tenin'  a  little.  "Steam  boiler  man,  by  Jersey 
City.  Four  furnace  doors. '  ' 

"I  get  you,"  says  I.  "You've  been  tossin' 
pea  coal  and  rakin'  out  clinkers.  And  as  an 
indoor  athletic  pastime  that  beats  rollin'  ciga- 
rettes or  playin'  Kelley  pool.  Shed  the  shirt, 
Joe,  and  lemme  take  a  squint  at  them  shoulder 


SHORTY  PICKS  A  COMER  5 

muscles  of  yours.  That 'sit.  Z-z-z-z,  man !  But 
you  have  got  some  development  there.  Hey, 
Cap  'n !  Come  look  at  this,  eh  ?  No  wonder  he 's 
got  a  punch.  And  notice  the  length  of  those 
arms — like  the  hind  legs  of  a  kangaroo.  Say, 
if  he  only  knew  how  to  use  'em ! ' ' 

I  wasn't  thinkin'  so  much  of  boxin'  as  I  was 
of  bayonet  work,  for  I'd  been  watchin'  that 
cold-steel  drill  quite  a  bit  and  thinkin'  how 
much  it  was  like  usin'  clever  tactics  in  the  ring. 
And  it  was  really  the  Captain  who  suggests  that 
maybe  Joe  is  the  very  one  we've  been  lookin* 
for.  You  see,  A  Company,  havin'  been  organ- 
ized some  three  hours  ahead  of  Company  B,  had 
been  givin'  themselves  all  the  airs  of  Picardy 
vets.  Besides,  in  the  draft  they'd  happened  to 
pull  this  Crab  Mitzler,  an  East  Side  mug,  who'd 
nipped  off  first  money  at  a  few  Olympic  Club 
sessions  and  was  already  bein'  touted  as  the 
lightweight  champ  of  the  whole  division. 

It  wasn't  so  much  the  chesty  motions  the 
Crab  went  through — though  he  did  kind  of 
throw  himself  around  at  times — as  the  cocky 
persiflage  about  him  that  A  Company's  Captain 
and  lieutenants  indulged  in  at  the  officers'  mess, 
which  got  Cap'n  Martin's  goat. 

"Why,"  says  the  Cap'n,  "you'd  think  they 
had  a  world  beater  over  there — a  second  Bat- 
tling Nelson.  They've  had  his  picture  in  the 
Sunday  papers,  talk  of  having  him  give  exhi- 


bition  bouts  at  the  nearby  cantonments — all 
that  rot.  If  we  could  only  find  a  man  who " 

"There's  no  telling,  Cap'n,"  says  I.  "One 
may  turn  up." 

Now  this  ain't  the  wildly  thrillin'  account, 
such  as  the  camp  correspondents  send  out,  of 
how  an  unknown  hero  stepped  from  the  ranks 
and  knocked  the  tar  out  of  the  regimental  bully. 
I  didn't  have  such  a  lot  of  faith  in  Private  Pants 
from  the  first.  He  didn't  act  to  me  as  though  he 
had  head  enough  to  sidestep  the  heavy  ones. 
Besides,  his  footwork  was  anything  but  shifty. 

Still  there  was  that  wonderful  punch,  and  no 
other  good  material  in  sight.  So  Joe  was 
yanked  off  the  potato  peelin'  and  floor  scrub- 
bin'  and  detailed  for  orderly  duty  that  took  him 
to  town  often.  Maybe  you  can  guess  that  he 
spent  his  time  here  in  the  Studio  gettin'  some 
intensive  trainin'  in  the  noble  art  of  pluggin' 
away  at  the  ribs  until  you  can  swing  for  the 
jaw.  : 

Well,  I've  handled  a  lot  of  comers  in  my  day, 
before  I  took  to  coachin'  plutes  to  stay  with  the 
big  money  game,  but  I  met  mighty  few  plugs 
who  were  so  crude  at  the  start.  Private  Pants 
didn't  seem  to  have  the  fight  instinct.  Not  that 
he  showed  yellow  anywhere,  but  it  just  didn't 
seem  to  be  in  him  to  work  for  a  knockout  and 
nothing  else. 

So  I  got  to  probin'  into  his  past.    It  wasn't 


SHORTY  PICKS  A  COMER  7 

much  of  a  past.  And  first  off  it  turns  out  that 
his  real  name  is  Pantlinski.  He  'd  been  born  and 
brought  up  in  one  of  them  Polish  places  with  a 
jaw-breakin'  tag,  livin'  there  until  he  was  six- 
teen, and  havin'  done  farm  work  ever  since  he 
was  big  enough  to  lift  a  hoe.  Then  him  and  his 
mother  and  an  uncle,  his  old  man  havin'  passed 
in,  had  joined  a  bunch  rounded  up  by  a  steam- 
ship immigration  agent  and  had  come  to  the 
United  States  expectin'  to  get  rich  right  away. 
Which  hadn't  happened. 

The  uncle  had  been  shipped  on  to  a  Pennsyl- 
vania rollin'  mill,  where  he'd  promptly  got 
mixed  up  with  some  liquid  iron  ore,  and  a 
generous  corporation  had  paid  all  the  funeral 
expenses  besides  expressin'  the  tin  trunk  back 
to  his  relations  in  Bayonne. 

Meanwhile,  Mrs.  Pantlinski  had  connected 
with  a  nice  easy  snap  in  a  steam  laundry, 
workin'  only  a  twelve-hour  shift,  while  Joe  had 
finally  found  this  boiler  room  job.  He's  stuck 
there  nearly  five  years  and  his  pay  had  been 
raised  to  $2.25  a  day.  At  that  he'd  saved  up 
over  $300,  and  was  thinking  of  taking  out  his 
second  papers  and  gettin'  married,  when  his 
number  was  drawn  at  Washington  and  he  found 
himself  herded  into  this  camp. 

Not  that  Joe  seemed  to  mind  it.  He'd  been 
cussed  and  kicked  around  all  his  life,  so  when 
the  drill  sergeant  got  a  bit  personal  in  his 


8       SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

remarks,  Joe  took  it  as  a  matter  of  course. 
He  confides  to  me  that  he'd  never  had  such  good 
clothes  on  his  back,  had  never  been  so  clean,  and 
hadn't  dreamed  there  could  be  so  much  good 
food  in  the  world.  Course,  he  expected  the 
Germans  would  kill  him  when  he  got  near 
enough  to  'em.  They  generally  did.  He  'd  been 
brought  up  to  believe  that.  He  didn't  hate  'em 
exactly,  nor  he  didn't  seem  much  afraid.  The 
way  he  looked  at  it,  this  was  simply  his  luck — 
what  he  'd  been  born  for. 

"Huh!"  says  I,  standin'  him  up  against  the 
gym  wall  and  makin'  him  look  me  square  in  the 
face.  "That's  about  the  poorest  dope  I  ever 
heard  from  anybody  that  called  himself  a  man. 
If  you  stick  to  that,  Joe,  we-  might  as  well  stop 
right  here,  for  this  Crab  Mitzler  party  has  got 
you  licked  now.  Understand  ? ' ' 

Joe  blinks  once  or  twice  and  then  shakes  his 
head.  "That's  too  bad,"  says  he.  "The 
Captain,  he  want  me  to  beat  him  up,  don't 
he?" 

"The  question  is,  Joe,"  I  goes  on,  "do  you 
want  to  beat  him  up  1 " 

"Sure,"  says  he. 

"Then,  that's  different,"  says  I.  "Now  we 
got  something  to  work  on.  For  it  can  be  done 
— easy.  But  you  got  to  forget  this  whipped- 
dog  stuff.  You  got  to  remember,  Joe,  that 
you're  not  only  a  citizen  of  the  United  States 


SHORTY  PICKS  A  COMER  9 

of  America,  but  a  soldier  in  the  finest  army  that 
ever  marched  anywhere.  You're  the  pride  and 
hope  of  a  hundred  million  free  people.  It's  no 
chain  gang  army  you're  in,  either.  When  you 
salute  an  officer  he's  got  to  salute  back.  Why, 
you  even  have  a  bugler  who  has  to  blow  the  call 
before  you'll  get  up  in  the  morning,  or  go  to 
bed  at  night.  You  have  cooks  gettin'  your 
meals,  tailors  makin'  your  uniforms,  ships  be- 
ing built  to  take  you  across  the  ocean,  doctors 
and  nurses  waitin'  around  to  fuss  over  you  if 
you  get  sick  or  hurt,  and  a  whole  raft  of  clerks 
and  so  on  writin'  your  name  in  big  books  and 
keepin'  track  of  all  the  little  things  you  do. 
Get  that?" 

Joe  says  he  does. 

1 '  Then  we  '11  consider  this  proposition  of  what 
you're  going  to  do  to  Crab  Mitzler  when  you 
meet  him  two  weeks  from  Saturday  night,"  I 
goes  on.  " You've  seen  him  in  action.  His 
style  is  to  duck  his  head  and  wade  in — the  old 
rush  method.  He  has  a  bad  wallop,  too.  You 
couldn't  stop  more'n  half  a  dozen  of  'em  with- 
out goin'  groggy.  So  what's  the  use?  You're 
goin'  to  start  in  by  coverin'  up  tight  and  doin' 
the  one-step  backward.  Yes,  with  the  crowd 
howlin'  at  you  to  stand  up  and  take  your  dose. 
Three  rounds  of  that  you'll  have  to  stand  for, 
maybe  four;  and  then,  when  you  hear  him 
breathin'  hard  and  his  swings  begin  to  slow  up, 


you're  goin'  to  cut  loose  with  them  short  jabs 
to  the  ribs.  Never  mind  that  ugly  mug  of  his. 
Hammer  away  at  his  slats.  And  keep  hammer- 
ing, until  your  rubber  gives  you  the  word  to 
watch  for  a  jaw  openin'.  And  when  it  comes, 
whip  one  in,  with  everything  you  got  behind  it. 
That  '11  be  all.  One  will  do  the  trick. ' ' 

Course,  it  didn't  work  out  just  that  way.  It 
seldom  does.  You  can't  take  a  man  who's 
dragged  his  heels  all  his  life  and  teach  him 
footwork  in  a  month.  Early  in  the  bout  Joe 
got  in  the  way  of  a  couple  of  Crab's  stingers. 
And  one  or  two  more  later  on.  By  the  end  of 
the  third  round  he  looked  like  an  easy  mark  and 
the  Company  A  people  were  up  on  their  hind 
legs  howlin'  delighted. 

But  about  the  middle  of  the  fourth,  when 
Crab  got  ambitious  to  finish  his  man  quick  and 
was  swingin'  a  bit  wild,  Joe  began  to  find  his 
body  punch.  "Ugh!"  remarks  Crab,  sort  of 
surprised.  The  fifth  was  about  an  even  break. 
Then  in  the  sixth — well,  right  in  the  midst  of 
one  of  his  whirlwind  rushes,  Crab  met  some- 
thing solid  and  impetuous.  He  meditated  on 
his  knees  while  the  referee  counted  eight.  Then 
he  wabbled  to  his  feet  again — and  met  another 
that  sent  him  almost  through  the  ropes.  Ten 
seconds  more  and  it  was  all  over.  A  Company's 
near-champ  was  a  has-been,  and  Private  Joe 
Pants  was  being  carried  around  triumphant  by 


SHORTY  PICKS  A  COMER          11 

as  many  Company  B  men  as  could  get  under 
him,  while  Captain  Martin  hammered  me  on  the 
back  enthusiastic. 

So  I  wasn't  much  astonished,  next  time  I 
went  out  to  camp,  to  find  that  Joe  had  been 
made  a  corporal  and  been  assigned  as  assistant 
boxin'  instructor  to  some'  of  the  new  draftee 
squads.  What  did  surprise  me  was  to  see  how 
easy  he  handled  'em  and  how  well  he  'd  remem- 
bered the  things  I'd  told  him. 

"Good  for  you,  Joe,"  says  I.  "Comin'  on, 
ain't  you?  I  expect  you'll  be  goin'  out  after 
the  division  championship  now." 

Joe  didn't  think  so.  "I  don't  like  to  fight  so 
much,"  says  he. 

"Savin'  it  up  to  feed  the  Heinies,  eh?" 
says  I. 

Joe  nods  and  gives  me  the  grin.  But  from 
then  on  he's  a  different  Joe.  For  one  thing, 
every  man  in  the  Company  was  his  friend  and 
showed  it.  That  must  have  helped.  He  takes 
it  modest  enough,  but  he  begins  carryin'  his 
chin  up.  His  back  has  straightened  and  stif- 
fened. When  you  talked  to  him  he  met  your 
eyes  level.  He  was  doing  good  work  with  his 
squads. 

So  it  was  natural  when  the  Top  Sergeant 
overstayed  his  leave  or  something,  that  the  one 
who  should  get  his  place  was  Joe.  I  happened 
into  camp  the  day  he  bloomed  out  in  his  new 


12     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

chevrons.  And  that  was  when  he  first  sprung 
this  on  me  about  his  mother. 

' l  She  don 't  know  yet, ' '  says  he.  ' '  I — I  kinda 
want  her  to  see." 

"Course  you  do,"  says  I.  "Why  not  have 
her  come  out  right  away?" 

"No,  no,"  puts  in  Joe  hasty.  "Not — not 
now.  The  old  lady  she — she  wouldn't  be 
ready." 

"Whaddye  mean,  ready?"  says  I. 

It's  the  first  time,  too,  I'd  ever  seen  Joe  tint 
up  any.  But  he  works  up  quite  a  neck  color 
while  he's  tryin'  to  explain,  and  when  he's 
through  strugglin'  with  the  language  I'm  just 
as  wise  as  when  he  started. 

' '  Say  it  in  Polish,  Joe, ' '  says  I, l  i  then  maybe 
lean  guess." 

But  Joe  won't  do  that.  Just  then,  though, 
out  from  the  Hostess  House  across  the  way 
drifts  Private  Crab  Mitzler  escortin'  a  big, 
high-chested  female  who  looks  like  she'd  been 
decorated  for  a  grand  review.  She  has  on  a 
smashin'  big  hat  with  purple  ostrich  plumes 
wavin'  over  it  and,  although  it's  a  warm  day, 
she  has  a  fur  stole  draped  over  her  wide  shoul- 
ders. Also  she's  sportin'  ear  danglers  and  her 
facial  color  scheme  is  some  vivid.  A  regular 
East  Side  get-up,  suitable  for  Yom  Kippur  or 
any  other  holiday.  Joe  takes  her  all  in,  up  and 
down. 


SHORTY  PICKS  A  COMEE          13 
old   lady,"   I   suggests. 


Joe  is  still  followin'  her  with  his  eyes  set. 
Finally  he  turns  to  me.  '  '  My  old  lady  wouldn't 
—wouldn't  be  like  that,"  says  he. 

"No?"  says  I. 

"No,"  says  Joe,  kind  of  smothering  a  sigh. 
"She  —  she'd  be  wearin'  a  shawl.  No  hat, 
understand;  always  a  shawl,  red  and  green. 
And  her  old  purple  dress,  just  like  at  home." 

Then  I  got  the  idea.  "Joe,"  says  I,  "you 
don't  mean  you'd  be  ashamed  to  have  your  old 
mother  come  out  here?" 

"Me?'  'says  he.  "No.  What  do  I  care?  But 
she  —  well,  when  she  saw  the  other  women,  she'd 
feel  bad.  She'd  want  to  go  back,  right  off." 

"Oh,  that's  it,  eh?"  says  I.     "Think  she'd 
feel  as  if  she  wasn't  dressin'  the  part,  eh? 
,  what  's  to  be  done  ?  '  ' 

I  could  send  plenty  of  money,"  says  Joe, 
"but  she  wouldn't  know  how  to  fix  up  right. 
Not  her.  She  don't  go  out  much.  If  somebody 
could  kinda  show  her  how  -  " 

"Joe,"  I  breaks  in,  "I  hope  you  ain't  puttin' 
anything  like  that  up  to  me  ?  '  ' 

"You  —  you  couldn't  do  it?"  he  asks  pleadin'. 

'  '  Ab-so-lutely  not,  '  '  says  I.  "  I  'm  handy  at  a 
few  things,  but  when  it  comes  to  costumin'  any- 
body's mother  for  a  visit  to  camp,  I'll  have  to 
pass.  That's  a  female  job.  But  see  here;  ain't 


" 


14     SHORTY  McCABB  GETS  THE  HAIL 

you  got  any  women  relations,  or  any  young  lady 
friends  you  could  call  on  ? " 

He  thinks  hard  for  a  minute  or  so,  and  then 
announces  hesitatin':  "There's  Minna  and 
Eosa,  my  second  cousins.  But  they — they're 
too  stuck-up  and  stylish.  They  work  in  a  big 
store  by  Newark." 

"Then  they're  elected,"  says  I.  "They'd  be 
the  very  ones." 

Joe  seems  to  think  they  wouldn  't  do  it.  ' '  You 
leave  it  to  me,"  says  I.  "I'll  persuade  'em." 

I'd  got  kind  of  interested  in  the  game  by  that 
time.  Besides,  as  Joe's  regiment  was  due  to 
be  shipped  over  within  the  next  week  or  so,  and 
as  this  might  be  the  only  chance  the  old  lady 
would  have  of  seeing  him — maybe  the  last  time 
she  ever  would  see  him — I  thought  it  was  due 
to  both  of  'em.  So  I  spends  most  of  an  after- 
noon chasin'  around  on  the  Jersey  side. 

And  Joe  hadn't  exaggerated  any  about  his 
second  cousins.  I  located  'em  all  right,  one  in 
the  suit  department,  the  other  at  the  bargain 
waist  counter.  And  for  girls  who'd  landed  at 
Ellis  Island  not  more'n  six  years  before  they 
sure  had  caught  on.  You  know — zippy  dressers 
on  and  off  and  not  bashful  about  chattin' 
through  the  gum.  They  was  some  impressed, 
though,  to  hear  how  Cousin  Joe  had  got  to  be 
a  Non  Com  and  boss  of  a  lot  of  men. 


SHORTY  PICKS  A  COMER  15 

"Wouldn't  that  bump  you,  Minn?"  says 
Rosa.  "Joe  a  officer.  Wisht  we  could  see  him 
at  it  once. ' ' 

"You  can,"  says  I,  "if  you'll  take  this  $40 
he's  sent  and  outfit  the  old  lady  for  the  excur- 
sion." 

"Will  we!"  says  Rosa.  "That's  one  little 
thing  we  will  do,  and  do  handsome.  Trust  us. 
How  about  next  Sunday?" 

1 1  Fine ! ' '  says  I.  "  I  '11  hunt  her  up  and  let  her 
know. ' ' 

At  the  laundry  they  was  good  enough  to  give 
her  five  minutes  off  to  talk  to  a  stranger  in  the 
front  office.  A  bent-shouldered,  weary-eyed 
little  old  girl  it  is  that  comes  out  wipin'  her 
hands  on  her  burlap  apron.  I  don't  suppose  she 
was  much  over  forty  at  that,  but  she  might  have 
been  sixty  from  her  looks.  Years  of  field  work, 
and  more  years  tendin'  a  steam  mangle  are 
bound  to  tell.  And  she  seemed  rather  dazed  at 
the  prospect  of  visitin'  the  camp. 

"Aye  like  to  coom,"  says  she,  "but — but  Aye 
no  tank  Aye  can. ' ' 

"Sure  you  can,"  says  I.  "Minna  and  Rosa 
are  goin'  along.  They'll  fix  you  up  for  it." 

"Oh!"  says  she.  "Well,  maybe  Aye  coom. 
Aye  dunno,  though. ' ' 

I  didn't  either.  She's  such  a  timid,  pathetic, 
little  old  party.  Where  the  girls  were  going  to 


16     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

begin  on  her,  or  how  they  would  finish,  was  be- 
yond me.  It  looked  hopeless. 

So  when  I  'phoned  over  Saturday  forenoon 
to  ask  Minna  how  they  was  progressing  I  was 
prepared  to  hear  that  the  party  had  been  called 
off.  But  it  hadn't. 

* '  Sure  thing ! ' '  says  Minna.  * '  We  '11  make  the 
9.15  ferry — Desbrosses." 

Even  then  I  had  cold  feet.  It's  a  flossy  bunch 
that  streams  into  them  camps  of  a  Sunday,  and 
it  would  be  too  bad  if  Joe's  mother  should  get 
to  sizin'  'em  up  and  balk  right  at  the  gate. 
Besides,  I  kind  of  wanted  Joe  to  be  able  to  show 
her  around  the  place,  without  havin'  any  of 
them  new  rookies  snickerin'  at  him. 

That's  why,  when  I  runs  across  Pinckney — 
who's  about  the  swellest  friend  I've  got — I  had 
this  nervy  hunch  about  borrowin'  his  car.  And 
when  I'd  sketched  out  my  scheme  for  loadin' 
Mrs.  Pantlinski  into  his  limousine,  where  she 
could  peek  through  the  curtains  if  she  was  too 
panicky  to  climb  out,  he  falls  for  it  like  the  true 
sport  he  is. 

"My  only  regret,  Shorty,"  says  he,  "is  that 
I  have  but  one  enclosed  car  to  lend  to  my 
country." 

Course,  this  means  I've  got  to  go  along  with 
the  chauffeur,  so's  to  pick  up  the  right  trio  at 
the  ferry.  But  what's  a  Sunday  forenoon  now 
and  then?  I  was  down  there  with  the  old-rose- 


SHORTY  PICKS  A  COMER  17 

lined  bus  at  9  A.M.,  and  when  the  crowds  begun 
pourin'  off  I  had  my  neck  stretched  and  my  eyes 
open. 

I  was  some  disgruntled,  too,  when  I  got  my 
first  glimpse  of  the  girls,  for  there's  three  of 
'em.  I  figured  that  when  the  old  lady  had 
backed  out  they  had  just  rung  in  a  friend  and 
come  right  along.  I  wasn't  goin'  to  hail  'em  at 
all,  but  they  spots  me  before  I  could  duck  and 
booms  right  over. 

"Well,  of  all  the  swell-elegance!"  says  Rosa. 
"Say,  Mister,  you're  a  reg'lar  feller,  ain't  you? 
Do  we  go  in  the  rollin'  boudoir?" 

"Where's  the  old  lady?"  I  demands. 

"Did  you  hear  that,  Minn?"  says  Rosa, 
snickerin'. 

"That's  handin'  us  sump  in',  I  guess,"  says 
Minna.  "Have  another  look,  Professor.  The 
one  in  the  middle." 

Then  it's  me  with  my  mouth  open  and  my 
eyes  poppin',  for  the  middle  party — the  one  in 
the  nifty  blue  lid  with  the  veil  to  match,  with 
her  hair  fluffed  out  and  twisted  into  pats  over 
her  ears — is  Mrs.  Pantlinski.  I  gasps  and  con- 
tinues to  stare  at  her  up  and  down,  from  the 
18-button  white  kid  boots  to  the  powdered  nose 
and  the  little  dabs  of  color  worked  in  artistic 
just  under  the  cheek  bones. 

"Will  she  pass,  Mister?"  asks  Rosa. 

"Pass!"   says   I.     "Why   she'll  have    'em 


18     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

goggle-eyed  out  there.  What  gets  me  is  how 
you  could  do  it  all  on  $40." 

"Less 'n  four, ' '  says  Minna.  l '"What  have  we 
got  extra  wardrobes  for,  anyhow?  But  it's 
lucky  she  was  about  our  size." 

Then  I  turns  curious  to  see  how  the  old  girl 
is  takin'  it,  bein'  flossed  up  like  a  Canal  Street 
chicken.  But  say,  she's  wearin'  a  pleased, 
simple  look,  and  there's  almost  a  sparkle  in  her 
tired  eyes. 

"Don't  they  fix  me  up  grand  to  see  Joe?"  she 
asks.  "Aye — Aye  never  been  fixed  up  this  way 
before,  but — but  it's  kinda  nice.  Aye  hope  Joe 
likes  me  this  way. ' ' 

I  hoped  he  would.  I  wasn't  a  bit  sure,  though. 
All  the  way  out  to  camp  I'd  keep  lookin'  at  her 
and  wonderin'.  Course,  when  you  got  right 
close  you  could  see  the  wrinkles  at  the  eye 
corners,  and  the  yellowish  lined  cheeks  under 
the  drug-store  complexion.  But  a  little  dis- 
tance off,  blamed  if  the  effect  wasn't  stunnin'. 
She  must  have  been  quite  a  good-looker  when 
she  was  young,  and  them  snappy  clothes  had 
brought  most  of  it  back.  But  wouldn't  Joe  be 
too  jarred  for  words? 

He  was.  All  he  can  do  for  the  first  few  min- 
utes is  stand  and  gawp  at  her.  Then  gradually 
a  smile  lights  up  his  dull-lookin'  face — a  happy, 
satisfied,  proud  smile,  that  lasts  all  the  rest  of 
the  time  we  saw  him. 


SHORTY  PICKS  A  COMER  19 

"You — you  look  fine,  Ma,"  says  he. 

"You  look  awful  nice,  too,  Joe,"  says  she, 
runnin'  her  fingers  gentle  over  his  sleeve 
chevrons. 

And  for  two  hours,  until  Mrs.  Pantlinski  says 
she  can't  take  another  step  in  them  high-heeled 
boots,  Joe  tows  her  around  through  the  bar- 
racks and  grounds,  introducing  her  to  every- 
body he  can  find  who  '11  stop  long  enough,  from 
the  Captain  to  the  stew  cook.  And  when  he 
finally  helps  her  into  the  limousine,  after  a  last 
fond  clinch,  Sergeant  Pantlinski  stands  watchin' 
her  whirled  away,  his  hat  off  respectful,  and  a 
big  drop  of  brine  tricklin'  down  either  side  of 
his  nose. 

"This  war  stuff,"  remarks  Minna,  "is 
sump'n'  fierce,  ain't  it?" 

"Some  of  it  is,"  says  I,  "and  then,  again, 
some  of  it  ain't!" 


n 

SPEED   WORK    FOB  PIPKIN 

THERE  was  Pinckney  and  me  and  Mortimer 
Judders.  Course,  there  was  a  hundred  or  two 
others  on  board  the  Southland  Limited,  not 
countin'  the  train  crew  and  the  minstrel  ag- 
gregation in  charge  of  the  diner.  But,  bein* 
shut  off  the  way  we  were,  we  didn't  see  much 
of  the  rest  of  the  passengers.  Oh,  my,  no! 
Judders  couldn't  have  stood  it  to  be  mixed  in 
promiscuous.  So  all  we  had  was  the  drawin'- 
room  and  an  adjoinin'  compartment,  which 
makes  a  real  cute  little  two-room  flat  on  wheels. 

I  don't  mean  we  had  a  wheel-chair  patient  on 
our  hands.  No;  Judders  was  just  dead  from 
the  chin  up.  You  know — one  of  the  sleep- 
walkers. First  few  times  I  saw  Judders,  I 
thought  he'd  been  doped.  Maybe  I've  stated  it 
a  bit  strong,  but  Judders  wasn't  what  you'd  call 
a  real  active  member.  Seemed  like  he  was 
muscle-bound  in  the  brain  and  was  sufferin' 
from  ossification  of  the  temperament.  And  I 
never  got  over  bein'  surprised  when  he  said 
anything  on  his  own  hook,  or  now  and  then 

20 


SPEED  WORK  FOR  PIPKIN         21 

revealed  that  he  did  have  certain  likes  and  dis- 
likes. 

Along  in  the  late  thirties,  Judders  was,  and 
an  old  bachelor — of  course.  You  couldn't  imag- 
ine him  ever  havin'  pep  enough  to  try  to  get 
married,  and  I  expect  he  never  had.  Whether 
or  not  he'd  inherited  this  expensive  system  of 
livin'  along  with  his  preferred  stocks  and  six 
per  cent  bonds,  I  never  found  out.  But  he  had 
it.  Oh,  yes ;  nothing  impulsive  or  offhand  about 
Judders'  program  of  life.  Near  as  I  could 
figure,  he'd  been  followin'  the  same  routine, 
year  in  and  year  out,  ever  since  he  'd  come  into 
his  pile. 

No,  that's  wrong.  I  did  hear  Pinckney  men- 
tion how  he  changed  his  rooms  at  the  club  once, 
and  one  season  he  went  to  Bermuda  instead  of 
Piney  Springs,  Georgia.  Outside  of  that, 
though,  he'd  stuck  to  schedule — startin'  South 
right  after  the  first  two  weeks  of  grand  opera, 
comin'  up  in  April,  goin'  to  Tuxedo  June  15, 
and  landin '  back  at  the  club  the  Saturday  after 
Labor  Day. 

Not  such  a  poor  order  of  events,  I'll  admit. 
Strikes  me  I  could  follow  that  and  have  more 
or  less  fun.  But  it  does  seem  wasted  on 
Judders.  I  should  have  said  he'd  been  just  as 
contented,  providin'  he'd  started  that  way,  if 
he'd  been  planted  in  dry  sand  about  up  to  his 
neck,  same  as  they  keep  some  kinds  of  vege- 


22     SHOBTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

tables.    Just  as  useful  to  society  that  way,  too. 

You  might  think  it  odd  of  Pinckney,  trailin' 
around  such  a  non-conductor,  bein'  about  as 
much  of  a  live  wire  himself  as  you'd  find  in  a 
week's  hunt.  But  that's  Pinckney — always 
showin'  up  with  some  queer  gink  or  other,  and 
lettin'  on  how  there's  a  lot  more  in  'em  than 
anyone  suspects. 

"Huh!"  says  I,  after  he's  sprung  Mortimer 
on  me  for  the  first  time.  "Is  he  all  bone  above 
the  eyes,  or  what?" 

"Nothing  of  the  kind,  Shorty,  I  assure  you," 
says  Pinckney.  "My  friend  Judders  has  a 
mental  equipment  rather  over  than  under  the 
average. ' ' 

"Hides  it  well,"  says  I. 

"Besides,"  goes  on  Pinckney,  "he  has  an 
amazingly  even  disposition,  as  well  as  many  ex- 
cellent traits  of  character  which  I  am  discover- 
ing from  time  to  time. ' ' 

"You're  some  grand  little  explorer,  Pinck- 
ney," says  I.  "It's  a  pity  there  ain't  more 
poles  to  be  located." 

"Ah!"  says  he,  lightin'  another  cigarette. 
"What  is  the  finding  of  a  certain  point  of  lati- 
tude compared  to  the  most  trivial  excursion  into 
that  vast  uncharted  mystery,  the  mind  of  man?" 

"Eh?"  says  I,  gawpin'. 

"My  latest  theory  about  Judders,"  says  he, 
"is  that  he  lacks  merely  the  subconscious 


SPEED  WORK  FOB  PIPKIN         23 

initiative.    It  is  there,  of  course,  but  dormant. ' ' 

"Meanin',"  says  I,  makin'  a  wild  stab,  ''that 
he  needs  a  jolt  somewhere  to  make  him  come  out 
of  the  spell?" 

"Quite  so,"  says  Pinckney.  "And  I  have  an 
idea,  Shorty,  that  between  us  we  can  supply 
the  necessary  psychic  urge." 

"Ah,  come !"  says  I.  "Lay  off  ringin'  me  in. 
I'm  dizzy  now." 

But  a  day  or  so  later  Pinckney  tows  him  in 
again.  His  new  hunch  is  that  what  Judders 
needs  most  is  some  of  my  physical  culture  work 
— a  half-hour  boxin'  lesson  every  day. 

"After  all,"  says  Pinckney,  "it  may  be  an 
indolent  liver. ' ' 

"Sometimes  it  is,"  says  I. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Mortimer  does  look  a 
little  yellow.  But  say,  you  might  as  well  try 
teachin'  a  guinea-pig  to  play  Kelley  pool.  Mor- 
timer 's  notion  of  boxin '  is  to  hold  the  gloves  out 
rigid,  like  he  was  offerin'  'em  for  sale,  and  gaze 
at  me  amiable.  No  good  rappin'  him  on  the 
beak,  or  steamin'  one  in  on  his  ribs.  He  just 
acts  surprised  and  puzzled.  The  wand  drill  and 
medicine-ball  stunts  was  more  in  his  line.  He 
got  quite  interested  in  that  work,  'specially 
when  I  made  kind  of  a  game  of  it.  Did  him 
good,  too,  so  far  as  his  general  health  went. 
But  when  it  came  to  developin'  what  Pinckney 
calls  the  psychic  urge,  there's  no  thin'  doin'. 


24     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

' 'It's  higher  up  than  the  liver,"  says 
I.  "  Where  he's  torpid  is  between  the 
ears." 

Then  it  came  time  for  Judders  to  go  South, 
as  per  schedule,  and  he  staggers  both  of  us  by 
proposin'  that  I  go  along  and  relieve  the 
monotony  of  the  trip  by  givin'  him  his  usual 
exercises. 

'  *  Where  ? ' '  says  I.    "On  the  Pullman  roof  ? " 

"Couldn't  we  manage  something  of  the  sort 
in  a  drawing-room?"  he  asks.  And  when  he 
suggests  that  he  '11  pay  fifty  a  day  and  expenses, 
I  figures  I  can't  afford  to  stay  at  home. 

' '  By  Jove ! ' '  says  Pinckney.  *  *  If  you  two  are 
going  to  do  traveling  gymnasium  work  all  the 
way  to  Georgia,  hanged  if  I  don't  trot  along, 
too.  It  ought  to  be  worth  watching. ' ' 

So  that's  how  we  come  to  be  sportin'  around 
in  all  this  transportation  space.  And  by  open- 
in'  up  the  two  compartments  we  did  have  quite 
a  lot  of  room  to  step  around  in.  Anyway,  I 
managed  to  give  Mortimer  enough  exercise  the 
first  afternoon  out  so  he  got  in  a  good  night's 
sleep. 

It  was  about  nine  o'clock  next  mornin',  and 
we  was  just  finishin'  breakfast  in  the  dinin'-car, 
when  we  notices  that  the  train  is  makin'  a 
longer  stop  than  the  usual  water-tank  halt.  The 
word  is  passed  around  that  an  air-couplin'  had 
gone  bad  and  the  brakes  on  the  rear  sleeper 


SPEED  WORK  FOR  PIPKIN         25 

had  been  set.  A  lot  of  passengers  was  pilin' 
off,  so  we  follows. 

And  you  know  how  good  it  seems  to  get  out 
of  them  stuffy  cars,  where  they  use  the  same  air 
from  November  to  June,  and  pump  in  a  fresh 
supply  that  ain't  loaded  with  dust  and  cinders. 
Besides,  we  'd  left  half  a  foot  of  slush  on  Broad- 
way, with  more  snow  bein'  added,  while  down 
here  the  warm  sun  was  dryin'  up  a  light  frost 
and  the  grass  alongside  the  tracks  was  still 
green.  Over  in  a  field  to  the  right  some  darkies 
was  doin'  a  little  late  cotton-pickin'.  On  the 
other  side  is  what  passes  for  a  town,  I  suppose. 
There's  a  wooden  station  that  might  have  been 
painted  once,  a  general  store  with  a  couple  of 
mule  teams  hitched  in  front,  maybe  a 
dozen  frame  houses,  and  a  two-storied  shack 
that  somebody's  had  the  nerve  to  call  a 
hotel. 

"Cunnin'  little  metropolis,  ain't  it?"  says  I. 
"Wonder  what  they  call  it?" 

"This,"  says  Pinckney,  "is  the  fair  village  of 
Pipkin,  South  Carolina. ' ' 

1 '  Pipkin,  eh  1 "  says  I.  '  *  Looks  it.  I  hope  we 
ain't  tied  up  here  for  any  length  of  time." 

That  remark  seems  to  stir  something  in  Mor- 
timer's mind.  He  glances  around  disapprovin' 
on  Pipkin  in  general,  and  then  taps  Pinckney  on 
the  arm. 

"I  say,"  says  he,  "what  if  one  did  have  to 


26     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

stay  in  such  a  place  for — well,  for  a  week 
or  so!" 

"But  why  not?"  demands  Pinckney. 

"Don't!"  protests  Mortimer.  "That's  too 
absurd. ' ' 

If  he'd  known  Pinckney  as  well  as  I  do,  he 
wouldn't  have  put  it  just  that  way.  I  could  tell 
he'd  made  a  mistake  the  minute  I  saw  that 
flicker  in  Pinckney 's  black  eyes. 

'  *  My  dear  Mortimer, ' '  says  Pinckney,  "  to  be 
absurd  now  and  then  is  the  high  privilege  of 
man  alone.  Also,  it  is  that  which  adds  the  fine 
savor  to  existence.  Now,  neither  of  us  has  the 
vaguest  idea  as  to  what  living  in  Pipkin  is  like. 
Here  is  our  opportunity  to  find  out.  Let's." 

"Oh,  I  say!"  gasps  Mortimer. 

"Your  own  suggestion,"  comes  back  Pinck- 
ney. "An  inspired  impulse!  Who  knows? 
And  we've  just  time  to  do  it.  Here,  porter! 
Get  those  bags  of  ours  off  right  away." 

"But — but,  Pinckney!"  wails  Mortimer,  that 
long,  vacant  face  of  his  suddenly  registerin' 
seven  kinds  of  agitated  emotion. 

* '  Quit  your  kiddin ', "  I  puts  in. 

No  use.  Pinckney  is  shovin'  a  fiver  at  Eastus 
and  urgin'  him  to  get  a  jump  on.  When  I  sees 
that  he  meant  it  I  takes  a  hand  at  helpin', 
gatherin'  up  stray  articles  that  we'd  left  layin* 
around.  Meantime  the  train  crew  has  mended 
the  air-pipes,  there  comes  a  warnin'  whistle 


SPEED  WORK  FOE  PIPKIN         27 

from  the  engine,  and  as  I  dashes  out  on  my 
second  trip  the  last  of  the  passengers  was 
climbin'  aboard.  So  I  drapes  an  overcoat  on 
Judders'  right  arm,  jams  his  shavin'  kit  and  a 
couple  of  collars  into  his  hands,  and  balances 
his  derby  on  top  of  his  travelin'  cap.  As  he 
sees  the  train  movin'  off  without  him,  he  lets 
out  a  desperate  groan,  and  we  fairly  had  to 
hold  him  from  runnin'  after  it. 

1  'But  I — I  simply  can't  stay  here,"  he  moans. 

''How  do  you  know  until  you've  tried!"  says 
Pinckney.  ''Which  is  precisely  what  we  are 
about  to  do." 

"But  this — this  is  awful,"  insists  Judders. 

"Mortimer,"  says  Pinckney,  backin'  him 
against  a  heap  of  kit-bags  and  suitcases  and 
makin'  him  sit  down,  "allow  me  to  correct  your 
point  of  view.  You  seem  to  think  life  is  a  fixed, 
cut-and-dried  affair — a  tread-mill.  Well,  it 
isn't.  It  is  a  glorious,  splendid  adventure." 

Mortimer  tried  to  crash  in  with  some  gulpy 
remark,  about  not  carin'  for  adventure,  but 
Pinckney  cuts  him  off : 

"You  think  it  essential  to  your  comfort  and 
happiness  that  you  should  go,  at  this  exact  date 
every  year,  to  that  inexpressibly  dull  Piney 
Springs  of  yours.  I  know  perfectly  well  what 
you  do  there,  for  I've  watched  you  at  it.  Every 
forenoon  you  play  a  wretched  game  of  golf  with 
some  other  duffer,  and  for  the  rest  of  the  day 


28     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

you  sit  around  trying  to  convince  yourself  that 
you're  not  horribly  bored.  "While  here — here 
you  have  before  you  Pipkin — fresh,  untried,  un- 
exploited ;  new  surroundings ;  a  new  manner  of 
life ;  perhaps  the  most  entertaining  of  episodes 
awaiting.  Then  ho  for  Pipkin ! ' ' 

Course,  it's  a  nutty  line  of  talk,  but  with 
Mortimer's  face  to  watch  I  couldn't  help  en- 
joyin'  it.  If  he'd  been  dropped  on  a  desert 
island  he  couldn't  have  looked  more  dazed  or 
desperate.  He  just  sits  there  on  the  baggage, 
clutchin'  his  razor-strop  and  shavin'  brush, 
starin'  down  the  track  after  the  disappearm' 
train. 

"Don't  quite  seem  to  get  that  adventure  stuff, 
does  he?"  says  I.  "Acts  more  like  he  thought 
life  was  a  term  in  jail." 

"Oh,  give  him  time,"  says  Pinckney.  "Now 
suppose  we  see  about  accommodations." 

That  didn't  take  long.  The  landlord  of  the 
Pipkin  House  was  snoozin'  in  a  porch  chair  not 
two  hundred  feet  away.  He  wasn't  keen  at 
first  about  bein'  roused  up,  but  Pinckney  finally 
got  him  to  show  us  what  he  had  in  the  way  of 
rooms.  Anyway,  he  called  'em  rooms.  They 
looked  more  like  box-stalls  to  me.  I  expect  a 
finicky  mule-buyer  or  a  real  particular  fertilizer 
agent  would  have  put  up  a  holler  over  'em ;  but 
Pinckney  only  give  me  the  grin  and  says  how 
we '11  take  5,  7  and  9. 


SPEED  WORK  FOE  PIPKIN         29 

"Of  course,"  he  adds,  "you  will  have  them 
thoroughly  cleaned  and  aired.  I  would  sug- 
gest fresh  sheets,  too;  and  I  am  sure  you  can 
find  some  water  pitchers  that  are  not  cracked. ' ' 

"Excuse  me,  Mister,"  says  the  landlord,  "but 
what  you-all  think  yer  gittin'  for  a  dollar 'n  a 
half?" 

"Ah,  ha!  Your  error,"  says  Pinckney, 
pokin '  him  playful  in  the  ribs.  * '  We  are  paying 
three  dollars  a  day  each — perhaps  four.  It 
depends  upon  how  good  a  dinner  you  can  get 
for  us.  I  am  leaving  that  entirely  to  you.  But 
please  try  to  make  it  worth  four." 

"Ah  suttinly  will,  suh,"  says  the  landlord. 

When  he  gives  his  whole  attention  to  it  he's 
some  jollier,  Pinckney.  And  slippin'  a  five  or  a 
ten  here  and  there  along  with  his  josh  he  surely 
can  get  things  done.  When  we  struck  the 
Pipkin  House  it  hardly  looked  like  a  goin' 
concern.  Half  an  hour  later  it  was  fairly  hum- 
min'  with  busy  hands.  Two  darkies  were 
sweepin'  off  the  front  porch,  another  was  scrub- 
bin'  the  office  floor,  others  was  shakin'  rugs 
from  the  upper  windows,  and  out  back  we  could 
hear  some  women-folks  directin'  a  chicken 
chase.  By  the  squawks  I  could  make  a  good 
guess  as  to  what  might  happen  for  dinner. 
Honest,  when  we  come  to  lift  Mortimer  off  the 
baggage  and  lead  him  up  there  was  hardly  any 
quiet  spot  to  put  him.  So  we  started  out  on  a 


30     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

sandy  road  that  wanders  off  into  the  tall  long- 
leaf  pines  and  walked  him  about  four  miles. 

And  you  know  it  ain't  half  so  bad  as  it  looks 
from  the  car  windows,  this  South  Carolina  sec- 
tion of  the  map.  'Specially  on  such  a  mellow 
January  day  as  this.  For  one  thing,  you  get 
reg'lar  breathin'  air — clean  and  piny  smellin' 
and  full  of  pep.  Then,  there's  so  many  things 
to  see — little  coffee-colored  brooks  meanderin' 
across  the  road,  quail  whirrin'  up  from  the 
bushes  and  white  woolly  clouds  floatin'  lazy  in 
the  blue  sky. 

In  the  clearin's  we  came  across  little  groups 
of  darky  cabins  with  mud-chinked  walls  and 
mud  chimneys  and  groups  of  pickaninnies  play- 
in'  around.  At  one  place  Pinckney  bought  a 
live  turkey  and  sent  it  back  to  the  hotel.  At 
another  he  bargained  for  a  roastin'  pig,  to  be 
delivered  next  day.  Even  Mortimer  almost 
smiled  as  he  stood  watchin'  the  antics  of  them 
little  razor-backs. 

1 1  How  odd ! ' '  says  he.  * '  Do  you  know,  I  never 
knew  before  that  pigs — er — came  in  such  small 
sizes." 

"They  don't  on  Fifth  Avenue,"  says  I. 
' '  How 's  your  dinner  appetite  about  now  ? ' ' 

1  'Really,"  says  he,  "I  am  getting  quite 
hungry. ' ' 

He  was  more  than  that  before  we  landed  back 
at  the  hotel,  and  he  had  begun  askin'  Pinckney 


SPEED  WORK  FOR  PIPKIN         31 

if  one  could  manage  to  get  a  decent  meal  at  such 
a  place. 

4 'One  never  knows,"  says  Pinckney.  "But 
that  makes  this  sort  of  thing  all  the  more  inter- 
esting. ' ' 

I'll  confess  the  dining-room  didn't  look  prom- 
ism' — a  dingy  table-cloth,  thick  crockery,  and  a 
full  assortment  of  ketchup  bottles,  pickle  jars 
and  vinegar  cruets  starin'  at  us.  But  say,  when 
the  fried  chicken  and  sweet  potatoes  and  hominy 
cakes  was  set  on  we  forgot  such  trifles  as  nicked 
plates  and  damp  napkins.  We  went  to  it  like 
hired  hands  after  a  twelve-hour  day. 

"That's  what  I  call  a  reg'lar  meal,"  says  I, 
finishin'  my  third  hominy  cake  with  honey. 

' '  Thankee,  suh, ' '  says  the  landlord.  * '  Every- 
one around  heah  allows  th '  missus  is  some  cook 
when  she  spreads  herself." 

Then  we  loafs  around  outside  in  the  sun  until 
Pinckney  suggests  we  do  some  more  explorin'. 

"I  say,"  he  asks  the  landlord,  "what  are  the 
principal  objects  of  interest  in  your  town?" 

"Well,"  says  the  landlord  thoughtful, 
"there's  Grimes 's  brickyard,  down  the  road 
a  spell." 

"Good!"  says  Pinckney.  "We  will  inspect 
it." 

"Oh,  I  say!"  protests  Judders. 

"Mortimer,"  says  Pinckney,  "did  you  ever 
visit  a  real  brickyard  ?  Ah,  I  thought  not  I  No 


more  have  I.    Then  here  is  our  opportunity." 

So  off  we  tramps  again  until  we  gets  to  this 
huddle  of  tumble-down  sheds  surroundin'  a 
smeary  hole  in  a  clay  bank.  I  must  say,  it  ain't 
much  of  a  sight ;  but  Pinckney  pretends  to  get 
real  thrilled  over  it. 

"Just  think!"  says  he.  "Here  is  an  im- 
portant industrial  process  of  which  we  are  ut- 
terly ignorant.  If  we  could  only  find  this  Mr. 

Grimes,  now Ah,  I  wonder  if  this  can  be 

the  man?" 

It  could  and  was.  He's  a  picturesque  old 
patriarch  with  a  full  set  of  long-staple  whiskers 
and  jutty  eyebrows.  He's  sittin'  on  a  stump 
watchin'  three  slow  movin'  darkies  who  are 
shovelin'  red  clay  into  wheelbarrows  and 
trundlin'  'em  up  out  of  the  pit  on  a  string  of 
rotten  planks.  He  admits  that  his  name  is 
Grimes  and  that  he  owns  the  outfit.  Also,  bein' 
urged  by  Pinckney,  he  sketches  out  how  the  clay 
is  handled,  from  the  time  it's  dug  out  until  it 
leaves  the  firin'  kilns  for  the  stackin'  sheds. 

"And  then,"  says  Pinckney,  "the  bricks  are 
ready  to  be  shipped  off  and  made  into  homes 
and  factories  and  garden  walls.  How  inter- 
esting!" 

' *  Mebby, ' '  says  Mr.  Grimes.  ' '  But  f er  a  man 
who's  tryin'  to  pile  up  enough  to  carry  him  back 
to  Schenectady,  York  State,  it's  a  mighty  poor 
business  proposition." 


33 

"But,  my  dear  sir,"  says  Pinckney,  "why 
leave  such  a  charmingly  named  town  for  a  city 
with  so  unlovely  a  name  as  that?" 

"Names  don't  count  much  with  me,"  says 
Grimes.  ' '  Besides,  my  old  friend,  Jeb  Snyder, 
lives  in  Schenectady;  and  now  that  my  daugh- 
ter's married  and  moved  off,  and  the  old 
woman's  gone — well,  I  kinder  got  a  hankerin' 
to  see  Jeb  onct  more.  Don't  look  like  I'd  fetch 
it,  though. ' ' 

"Then  I  am  to  understand,"  says  Pinckney, 
"that  you  find  the  brick  business  unprofitable?" 

"Make  enough  to  keep  alive,  that's  about 
all,"  says  Grimes,  tampin'  down  his  old  pipe. 
"Wisht  I  could  sell  out,  that's  what  I  wish." 

"Ah!"  says  Pinckney,  his  eyes  sparklin'. 
' '  You  would  sell  ?  And  at  what  figure ! ' ' 

"Why,"  says  Grimes,  "if  I  could  git  fifteen 

hundred  cash  I — I'd But  say,  stranger, 

you  don't  happen  to  know  anybody  that'd  want 
to  buy,  do  ye ? " 

"Yes,"  says  Pinckney  prompt.  "This 
gentleman  here,  Mr.  Mortimer  Judders,  would 
be  delighted  to  purchase  your  brickyard." 

"Wha — what's  that?"  gasps  Mortimer. 

"See  how  enthusiastic  he  is?"  says  Pinckney, 
nudgin'  Grimes.  "I  suppose  it  has  been  one  of 
his  secret  ambitions  for  years,  and  now  that  the 
happy  chance  has  brought  the  thing  actually 
within  his  reach " 


34     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

"Please,  Pinckney!"  breaks  in  Judders. 
"Really,  you  know,  I  don't  wish  to  own  a 
brickyard. ' ' 

"Yesterday,  Mortimer,  I  might  have  believed 
you,"  says  Pinckney.  "But  you've  given  your- 
self away.  Who  was  it  suggested  stopping  off 
at  Pipkin?  You,  Mortimer.  No  use  denying  it. 
And  I  presume  you  thought  we  would  not  notice 
how  eager  you  were  to  get  out  here.  But  we 
did,  didn't  we,  Shorty?  Well,  there  is  nothing 
unmanly  about  such  a  desire,  nor  any  good 
reason  why  it  should  not  be  gratified.  Perhaps 
you  have  a  special,  heaven-sent  gift  for  brick- 
making.  Who  knows?  Thus  far  it  has  been 
latent,  lying  hidden  in  the  bud.  But  now — well, 
all  that  is  necessary  for  you  to  enter  on  your 
chosen  career  is  the  mere  writing  of  a  check. 
Professor  McCabe,  let  Mr.  Judders  take  your 
fountain-pen." 

"But,  Pinckney,  I — I "  begins  Mortimer. 

Whatever  he  meant  to  say,  he  couldn't  get  it 
out.  I  don't  know  if  you'd  call  it  mesmerism, 
or  what.  Maybe  it  was  just  that  it's  so  seldom 
he  has  a  new  proposition  batted  up  to  him  sud- 
den that  he's  simply  stunned.  And  then,  he'd 
been  so  used  to  followin'  Pinckney 's  lead  that 
I  expect  he  didn't  know  how  to  duck.  Anyway, 
he  acts  like  he  was  in  a  trance.  And  the  next 
thing  I  know,  he's  taken  the  pen  and  is  writin' 


35 

what  Pinckney  tells  him.  As  for  Grimes,  he's 
almost  as  much  staggered  as  Judders. 

11  There!"  says  Pinckney,  handin'  over  the 
check.  "Now  make  out  a  bill  of  sale,  Mr. 
Grimes,  and  to-morrow  the  deed  for  the  land 
can  be  transferred.  Congratulations,  Mortimer. 
You  are  now  a  captain  of  industry. " 

I  don't  know  what  move  Pinckney  looked  for 
from  Judders.  Ten  to  one,  all  he  saw  was  a 
chance  to  put  over  something  foolish  on  him, 
just  for  the  sake  of  seem'  how  Mortimer  would 
take  it.  Well,  for  a  while  there  you  'd  think  he  'd 
been  gassed  in  the  trenches.  Honest!  We 
didn't  get  a  word  out  of  him  for  more'n  two 
hours.  And  then,  as  we're  sittin'  around  a  pine- 
knot  fire  in  the  hotel  office,  waitin'  for  supper, 
he  murmurs  once  or  twice,  sort  of  to  himself : 

"Bricks!    Making  bricks  in  a  brickyard!" 

"Quite  so,"  says  Pinckney.  "Beautiful 
thought,  isn't  it?"  " 

"I — I  don't  know,"  says  Judders,  starin'  at 
the  fire. 

He  turned  into  the  feathers  early  that  night, 
before  nine  o'clock,  leavin'  Pinckney  and  me 
gassin'  with  the  landlord  and  old  man  Grimes. 
Mortimer  must  have  been  up  an  hour  or  more 
when  we  came  down  in  the  mornin',  for  he'd 
finished  breakfast  and  was  waitin'  for  us  in  the 
dinin'-room. 


36     SHOETY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

"Do  you  know,"  says  he,  "I've  been  thinking 
a  lot  about  this  brickmaking  business." 


"Naturally,  Mortimer,"  says  Pinckney. 
"Being  in  it,  you're  bound  to." 

"I  don't  see,"  goes  on  Judders,  "why  it 
shouldn't  be  made  to  pay." 

"Eh?"  says  Pinckney,  gazin'  across  the  table 
at  him. 

"I  happen  to  know  a  chap,"  says  Mortimer, 
"who  gets  quite  a  large  income  from  brickyard 
interests — up  the  Hudson  somewhere.  Man- 
ages the  business  himself,  I  believe.  Harkley  is 
the  name — Joe  Harkley." 

"Oh,  yes,"  says  Pinckney.  "I've  met  him 
at  the  club,  haven't  I?" 

Mortimer  don't  seem  to  hear  the  question, 
but  rambles  along. 

"Now,  it  occurs  to  me,"  says  he,  "that  Mr. 
Grimes  may  not  be  using  the  best  methods. 
Those  darkies  with  wheelbarrows — such  a  slow 

way.  There  ought  to  be I  say,  Pinckney, 

if  I  could  get  Harkley  to  lend  me  a  few  men — 
a  foreman  and  some  brickmakers  who  know 
their  job  thoroughly — and  with  some  up-to-date 
machinery,  I — I  believe  I  could  make  a  go 
of  it!" 

It's  Pinckney  who's  gaspin'  now. 

"By  George!"  says  he.  "You — you  really 
mean  to  try  it?  You  are  going  to  stay — here?" 

"Of  course,"  apologizes  Mortimer,  "I  am  no 


SPEED  WOEK  FOE,  PIPKIN         37 

business  man.  I  have  never  done  anything  of 
the  sort.  But,  as  you  mentioned  yesterday,  this 
may  be  precisely  the  one  thing  I  can  do.  It — 
it  would  be  rather  interesting  to  try,  wouldn't 
it?  And,  while  this  hotel  is  somewhat  crude,  I 
think  I  could  fix  up  some  decent  quarters  here. 
I  might  buy  a  half  interest,  you  know,  put  in  a 
few  baths,  enlarge  some  of  the  rooms,  set  up  a 
small  electric  light  plant  for  the  town,  get  the 
railroad  to  run  a  spur  track  out  to  the  brick- 
yard, and " 

''Stop!"  says  Pinckney,  holdin'  up  both 
hands.  "Are  you  joking,  Mortimer?" 

Judders  gives  him  an  injured  look. 

" Certainly  not,"  says  he,  gettin'  up  and 
startin'  for  the  door. 

"But — but  where  are  you  going!"  asks 
Pinckney. 

"To  telegraph  Harkley,"  says  he. 

"Fancy!"  gasps  Pinckney,  as  the  door  slams. 
"Mortimer!" 

"Listens  like  you'd  started  something  for 
Pipkin,  don't  it?"  says  I. 

And  he  sure  had.  We  stayed  on  long  enough 
to  see  the  first  gang  arrive,  a  superintendent 
with  half  a  dozen  men,  who  reports  that  two  car- 
loads of  machinery  was  followin'.  Also  we  saw 
the  carpenters  start  work  on  Mortimer's  three- 
room  suite,  and  looked  over  his  plans  for  the 
new  power  house. 


38     SHOETY  MoCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

When  we  left,  he  was  pacin'  up  and  down  the 
hotel  office,  dictatin'  letters  to  a  stenographer, 
while  outside  were  two  county  commissioners, 
some  railroad  men,  an  automobile  agent,  and 
four  contractors,  all  waitin'  to  see  him.  And  we 
had  to  dodge  painters,  paper-hangers,  and 
steam-fitters  as  we  struggled  through  the  front 
door. 

1 1  Think  of  it ! "  says  Pinckney.  * '  Mortimer ! 
I  would  hardly  recognize  him  as  the  same 
person. '  ' 

"He  ain't,"  says  I.  "And  if  that  psychic 
urge  stuff  holds  out  for  six  months  you  won't 
know  Pipkin,  either. ' ' 


in 

TOUCHING   ON   THE   KINNEYS 

No,  I  wouldn't  have  thought  it  of  a  Kinney. 
Anyhow,  not  of  this  particular  breed.  For  our 
Kinneys  out  here  in  Roekhurst-on-the-Sound — 
well,  they're  the  kind  we  don't  admit  havin'  in 
our  midst  unless  we  have  to.  They're  on  the  tax 
books,  I  suppose,  and  the  men  have  their  names 
on  the  votin'  lists.  But  outside  of  that  they 
don't  count  for  much. 

As  I've  often  told  Sadie  when  she  was  dis- 
tributin'  charity  funds  or  makin'  up  Christmas 
baskets :  "Don't  go  wastin'  money  or  sympathy 
on  the  Kinneys.  You'll  get  no  thanks  from  'em 
if  you  do ;  besides,  they  don 't  deserve  it.  Take 
it  from  me,  they're  poor  trash." 

"But  Shorty,"  she'd  come  back,  "that's  just 
why  I  want  to  do  something  for  them." 

So  off  she  would  go,  with  a  bundle  of  little 
Sully 's  outgrown  things  for  the  kids,  along  with 
candy  and  toys,  and  maybe  a  boiled  ham  or  a 
roast  turkey,  to  be  gawped  at  silent  by  the 
youngsters  and  received  haughty  by  the  Kinney 
women. 

They  live  just  north  of  the  Point,  where  the 

30 


40     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

salt  marshes  make  in  along  the  creek.  Two 
little  half-acre  knolls  heave  up  out  of  the  marsh 
there,  one  on  either  side  of  the  creek,  and  on 
each  knoll  is  a  Kinney  shack.  Scott  Kinney 
lives  in  one,  Bruce  Kinney  in  the  other.  I  expect 
the  original  Kinney  squatted  there  years  ago, 
but  I  understand  he  got  some  sort  of  title.  Any- 
way, nobody  ever  disturbed  him.  He  built  the 
first  shack  on  the  south  side  of  the  creek.  Later 
on  a  brother  of  his  drifted  down  from  Con- 
necticut and  built  on  the  other  side.  They  fished 
and  clammed  and  caught  eels  and  raised  chil- 
dren and  drank  booze  out  of  a  jug.  You  know 
the  kind. 

Also  they  started  the  Kinney  feud.  I  don't 
know  as  anybody  can  say  now  what  it  was  all 
about  in  the  beginning.  Probably  nothing 
much.  And  it  wasn't  one  of  the  picturesque 
kind  you  read  about  where  they  shoot  and  carve 
each  other  up  reckless.  The  original  Kinneys 
took  it  out,  so  old  settlers  tell  me,  in  cuttin'  each 
other's  nets,  settin'  the  other  one's  boat  adrift, 
or  smashin'  his  eel  pots.  Except  once  in  a  while 
when  they  met  in  town  on  election  days  or  the 
Fourth,  well  primed  with  bad  whiskey,  they'd 
maul  each  other  in  some  bar-room  and  get  sent 
to  the  cooler  for  it.  Oh,  nice  citizens,  the 
Kinneys ! 

But  by  the  time  we  moved  out  here  to  enjoy 
the  simple  country  life  and  be  surrounded  by  a 


TOUCHING  ON  THE  KINNEYS       41 

lot  of  near-plute  neighbors  the  older  Kinneys 
had  passed  on,  and  the  shacks  on  the  marsh  were 
occupied  by  this  pair.  Seems  all  the  youngsters 
of  one  fam'ly  had  left,  or  died  or  gone  to  jail. 
Anyway,  Bruce  and  Scott  are  brothers. 

For  a  while,  too,  I  hear  they  promised  to  turn 
out  fairly  decent.  They  fished  regular,  started 
a  little  market  that  they  ran  on  shares,  and 
owned  a  motor  boat  together.  Even  after  Bruce 
married  this  husky  country  girl  from  some  farm 
up  back  of  Portchester  the  partnership  was  kept 
up.  It  was  after  Scott  brought  home  a  blushin' 
bride  that  the  families  begun  to  disagree  violent 
and  frequent. 

There  was  nothing  country  about  Mrs.  Scott 
Kinney.  She'd  been  born  and  brought  up  on 
Third  Avenue  and  it  was  only  because  she  hap- 
pened to  spend  a  summer  as  second  girl  at  one 
of  the  big  houses  down  on  the  Point  that  she  met 
Scott.  Her  idea  of  life  was  to  prop  her  elbows 
on  a  pillow  and  lean  out  of  a  window  to  watch 
people  go  by ;  or  to  spend  her  Sunday  off  taking 
in  a  chowder  party  trip  up  the  Hudson.  So  she 
must  have  found  it  sort  of  monotonous  livin'  in 
a  two-room  shack  on  the  north  side  of  Rock- 
hurst  creek,  where  nothing  went  by  but  the  tide. 
And  I  expect  her  and  Mrs.  Bruce  Kinney,  who 
seemed  contented  to  go  on  gettin'  fatter  and 
redder  faced  and  raisin'  more  tow-headed 
youngsters— well,  no  wonder  they  didn't  hit  it 
off. 


42     SHORTY  MoCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL  ' 

Anyway,  the  Kinney  feud  was  revived.  I 
don't  know  how  long  it  had  been  goin'  on  when 
I  first  heard  of  it.  Bruce  Kinney  had  been  sup- 
plyin'  us  with  clams  and  the  last  two  lots  he'd 
left  at  the  kitchen  door  without  collectin'  for. 
So  when  I  runs  across  Scott  slouchin'  along  the 
Shore  Road  I  holds  him  up. 

"Here,"  says  I,  countin'  out  the  change, 
"hand  this  to  that  brother  of  yours,  will  you?" 

Scott  scowls  at  me  and  shakes  his  head. 

"Why  not?"  I  demands. 

"I  don't  have  no  truck  with  him,"  growls 
Scott. 

"You  mean  you  don't  even  speak  to  him?" 
says  I. 

"We  ain't  passed  a  word  for  years,"  says 
Scott. 

"Well,"  says  I,  "I  don't  know  as  I  blame 
either  of  you." 

I  meant  it  all,  too.  For  of  all  the  cheap, 
grouchy,  hang-dog  lookin'  specimens,  the  Kin- 
ney brothers  are  about  as  bad  as  they  run. 
Scott  is  the  tall,  lanky  one  with  the  ragged, 
sandy  lip  whisker  and  the  scar  over  his  left  eye. 
Bruce  is  stockier  built  but  his  arms  are  just  as 
long.  His  face  is  wider  and  don't  look  quite  so 
villainous,  but  he  ain't  a  party  a  timid  person 
would  like  to  meet  at  night  on  a  back  road. 
Also  Bruce  has  a  game  knee  and  walks  with  a 
sort  of  hitch  and  shuffle. 


TOUCHING  ON  THE  KINNEYS       43 

Not  that  either  one  of  'em  was  ever  guilty  of 
a  hold-up  or  anything  like  that.  They  wouldn't 
have  the  sand.  No,  they're  just  shiftless,  low- 
down,  good-for-nothings,  too  lazy  to  do  much 
real  work  but  just  onery  enough  to  accumulate 
all  the  mean  little  habits  there  are  in  circulation. 

First  and  last  I  tried  out  the  Kinney  brothers 
in  a  good  many  ways,  mostly  on  Sadie's  ac- 
count. At  different  times  I've  had  'em  around 
the  place,  got  'em  jobs  in  town.  I  even  had 
Scott  cleaned  up  once  and  dressed  him  in  white 
ducks  to  act  as  float  man  at  the  Yacht  Club. 
But  neither  of  'em  ever  lasted  out  a  whole  week 
without  queerin'  himself.  They'd  either  get  to 
soldierin'  or  turn  sulky  and  impudent,  or  show 
up  so  fuddled  in  the  head  that  they  had  to  be 
fired. 

And  meanwhile  they  lived,  just  across  the 
muddy  little  creek  from  one  another,  with  their 
families,  never  swappin'  a  word  or  a  look.  If 
there 'd  been  anybody  else  they  could  have 
chummed  with  it  wouldn't  have  seemed  quite  so 
absurd.  But  there  wasn't.  And  day  after  day 
Bruce 's  troop  of  tow  heads  would  straggle  off 
to  school,  with  Scott's  two  youngsters  taggin'  a 
hundred  yards  behind.  That  is  until  the  two 
bigger  boys — Buck  and  Tubby — grew  up  enough 
to  loaf  around  the  village  or  go  fishin'  with  their 
dads. 

Day  after  day,  too,  the  Kinney  women  would 


44     SHOKTY  MoCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

work  around  their  cluttered  door  yards,  hangin' 
out  the  wash  or  choppin'  firewood,  without  so 
much  as  a  nod  to  each  other.  In  the  front  of 
each  shack  was  a  single  dirty  window  that 
seemed  to  glare  across  at  the  other  hostile. 

Yet  the  Kinneys  seemed  bound  to  do  things 
just  alike.  If  Scott  got  tanked  up  of  a  Satur- 
day night  and  had  words  with  his  wife,  so  did 
Bruce.  When  Bruce  painted  his  power  dory  a 
sickly  green  with  a  red  stripe  around  the  gunnel, 
Scott  got  hold  of  the  same  kind  of  paint  and 
daubed  his  old  boat  up  similar. 

Their  duck  enterprise  was  what  got  me, 
though.  One  spring  Scott  found  someone  in  the 
village  with  a  flock  of  these  Muscovy  ducks,  the 
kind  with  a  red  bunch  on  their  bills,  and  bought 
a  pair.  He  hadn't  had  'em  more'n  a  week  be- 
fore Bruce  Kinney  went  scoutin'  around  and 
came  home  with  a  pair,  too.  For  a  while  each 
brother  kept  his  ducks  penned  up  separate,  but 
they  didn't  do  well,  so  they  had  to  let  'em  out 
and  something  happened  to  one  of  Scott's  pair. 
Then  of  course  the  single  duck  joined  the  other 
two  and  went  swimmin'  around  with  'em  as 
friendly  as  you  please.  Worse  than  that,  even 
went  to  layin'  eggs  in  Bruce 's  pen.  That  got 
Scott  real  wrathy..  He  'd  stand  on  his  side  of  the 
creek  and  cuss  out  that  singleton  duck  of  his 
real  fervent.  But  the  ducks,  not  havin'  the  finer 
human  instincts,  didn't  recognize  the  feud  at  all. 


TOUCHING  ON  THE  KINNEYS       45 

"Dod  gast  ye!"  says  Scott.  "I'll  learn  ye  to 
stay  to  home."  And  lie  lugs  out  a  gun  and 
shoots  his  duck. 

Sadie  got  the  details  of  that  affair  a  couple  of 
weeks  later,  when  she  was  down  there  inquirin' 
after  the  youngest  of  Bruce  Kinney's  brood, 
little  Beryl  Blanche,  who'd  been  missing  from 
the  flock  for  a  week  or  so.  She  wouldn't  have 
known  about  Beryl  Blanche  then  if  she  hadn't 
happened  to  have  held  up  Tubby  Kinney,  the 
oldest  of  Bruce 's  boys,  who'd  come  home  again 
after  having  been  off  for  a  spell  working  on  a 
coasting  schooner.  He's  a  squatty,  hulkin' 
youth,  Tubby,  just  about  as  industrious  and 
enterprisin'  as  you'd  expect. 

"Oh,  I  guess  the  folks  are  all  right,"  he  tells 
Sadie,  "less'n  it's  Beryl.  She's  sort  of  ailin' 
'round. ' ' 

Beryl  was  all  of  that.  The  doctor  Sadie  sent 
down  said  it  was  some  serious  stomach  trouble 
due  probably  to  poor  feedin',  maybe  too  much 
boiled  cabbage,  and  he  didn't  expect  her  to  pull 
through.  She  didn't,  either.  But  when  the 
little  funeral  procession  of  two  village  hacks, 
with  the  little  casket  in  one,  wound  across  the 
marshes  and  up  towards  the  village  cemetery, 
none  of  the  Scott  Kinneys  was  in  evidence. 

"Wouldn't  you  have  thought,  Shorty,"  says 
Sadie,  "that  some  of  them  would  have  come 
over,  at  a  time  like  that?" 


46     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

"I  might,"  says  I,  "if  I  hadn't  known  Scott 
Kinney  so  well." 

I  think  that  was  the  fall  before  we  got  into  the 
big  war.  Anyway  I  remember,  along  about 
then,  of  comin'  up  through  town  one  Saturday 
night  and  hearin'  someone  holdin'  forth  loud 
and  rabid  about  the  Lusitania  business  and 
what  we  ought  to  do  to  the  Huns.  It's  Scott 
Kinney.  He  was  for  wadin'  right  in  then  and 
there  and  moppin'  up  the  whole  German  race 
some  mornin'  before  breakfast. 

"Jest  gimme  'bout  ten  rigiments  of  good 
fightin'  Americans,"  says  Scott,  "an'  I'll  guar- 
antee to  go  over  thar  and  bring  back  the  old 
Kaiser  and  the  Crown  Prince  with  their  ears 
sewed  together.  I'd  end  their  baby  murderm', 
dam  quick." 

But  somehow  nobody  offered  to  put  Scott  in 
command  of  the  army  and  I  expect  he  slept  off 
most  of  his  patriotism  by  noon  next  day.  I 
noticed,  too,  that  when  the  call  come  for  volun- 
teers, and  so  many  of  our  young  college  hicks 
left  for  Plattsburg,  or  joined  up  with  the 
marines,  or  the  artillery,  or  got  into  the  flying 
corps,  that  the  two  Kinney  boys  was  still 
hangin'  around  home.  Buck  Kinney  had  devel- 
oped into  a  pool  shark,  I  heard ;  could  take  on 
most  any  cue  artist  in  town  and  spot  him  five 
balls.  Then  came  the  first  draft,  and  a  couple 


TOUCHING  ON  THE  KINNEYS       47 

of  days  before  the  drawin'  I  finds  Scott  waitin' 
for  me  at  the  gate  one  mornin'. 

"Do  you  suppose  they'll  git  Buck?"  says  he. 

"I  don't  see  why  they  shouldn't,"  says  I. 
"He's  of  age,  ain't  he?" 

4 '  Jest, ' '  says  Scott.  ' '  And  his  maw 's  mighty 
worried  'bout  him. ' ' 

"But  I  thought  you  was  the  one  that  wanted 
to  go  over  and  mop  up  the  Germans  months 
ago  1 "  I  suggested. 

"So  I  would  if  I  wa'n't  so  old,"  says  Scott. 
"But  Buck — well,  he's  the  only  boy  we  got  and 
— and  there's  plenty  of  others  that  wants  to 
go." 

"Oh,"  says  I.  "You're  willin'  other  people 
should  send  their  boys,  but  you  want  to  keep 
yours  safe  at  home,  eh?" 

"His  maw's  takin'  on  terrible,"  says  Scott. 
"She — she  thought  maybe  you  could  git  him  a 
job  in  th'  Nut  and  Bolt  Works,  so  he  wouldn't 
be  took." 

"Nothing  doing,  Scott,"  says  I.  "First 
place,  he  couldn't  hold  down  a  job  a  week  there, 
and  you  know  it.  Besides,  the  best  thing  that 
could  happen  to  a  young  husk  like  Buck  would 
be  to  be  taken  into  the  army." 

"His  maw  don't  want  him  to  go  into  them 
trenches,"  whines  Scott.  "She's  shore  he'd 
git  shot  to  pieces  right  off." 

"Oh,  maybe  he  wouldn't,"  says  I.     "Any- 


48     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

'how,  he's  got  a  right  to  take  his  chances  with 
the  others." 

1  That  don't  end  it,  though.  Next  evenin'  just' 
"before  dinner  up  comes  Mrs.  Scott  Kinney  her- 
self for  an  interview  with  Sadie.  She's  a  tall, 
rangy  female,  Mrs.  Scott,  and  what  you  might 
call  a  sloppy  dresser,  even  for  the  marshes. 
Mostly  her  costume  consists  of  a  blue  polka  dot 
dress  that's  turned  purple  in  spots,  and  on  her 
greasy  black  hair  is  a  battered  old  lid  with  some 
straggly  feathers  trailin'  limp  over  one  ear. 
It's  the  first  time,  too,  that  I  ever  knew  of  her 
leavin'  the  shack.  Too  proud  I  expect.  But 
this  seems  to  be  a  special  occasion. 

She  starts  in  quiet  enough,  beggin'  Sadie  to 
do  something  to  keep  her  boy  out  of  the  draft, 
but  it  ain't  long  before  she's  cuttin'  loose  with 
the  sob  stuff,  clawin'  Sadie  about  the  knees  and 
otherwise  registerin'  deep  emotion  in  reg'lar 
Third  Avenue  style.  Course  it's  kind  of  embar- 
rassin'  for  both  of  us,  for  Sadie  feels  a  good 
deal  as  I  do  about  that  sort  of  thing.  She  tries 
to  soothe  her  down  by  tellin'  her  that  maybe 
Buck's  number  won't  be  drawn,  and  that  if  it  is 
there's  a  chance  he'll  have  flat  feet  or  some- 
thing to  keep  him  out. 

"Besides,"  Sadie  goes  on,  "your  son  will  not 
be  the  only  one.  Think  of  the  thousands  and 
thousands  of  others  who  must  go,  boys  whose 
mothers  think  quite  as  much  of  them  as  you  do 


TOUCHING  ON  THE  KINNEYS       49 

of  yours.  Your  brother-in-law's  boy  may  have 
to  go." 

"I  hope  t'  Gawd  he  does,"  sniffles  Mrs.  Scott. 

It  wasn't  a  nice  exhibition.  All  the  crude  raw 
selfishness  of  a  crude,  selfish  woman  came  to 
the  top,  like  scum  on  a  boiling  pot.  But  under- 
neath must  have  been  something  that  got  to 
Sadie.  Because  they  was  both  mothers,  I  ex- 
pect. Anyway,  before  she  left  I'd  promised  to 
do  what  I  could  for  Bucky  boy. 

Well,  I  got  him  the  job.  But  it  didn't  save 
Buck.  There 'd  been  too  much  of  that  bomb- 
proof job  huntin'  goin'  on  about  then  and  the 
Board  was  wise  to  it.  Then  days  later  he  was 
marched  off  in  a  squad  with  a  yellow  ticket  tied 
to  his  coat  lapel.  And  Tubby  Kinney  was  in  the 
same  bunch. 

I  don't  know  whether  the  Bruce  Kinneys  felt 
as  bad  over  it  or  not.  They  didn't  do  any 
takin'  on  to  us,  anyway.  But  when  I  lugged 
down  the  two  parcels  that  Sadie  had  made  up 
for  the  boys  I  found  fat  Mrs.  Bruce  Kinney 
slumped  with  her  head  between  her  beefy  arms 
on  the  kitchen  table  and  her  pale  blue  eyes  all 
bloodshot.  She  thanked  me  choky,  but  that's 
all  she  had  to  say. 

"You  wouldn't  think  somehow,"  I  remarks 
to  Sadie,  "that  they'd  take  it  so  hard,  folks 
like  that." 

"I'm  afraid  it's  something  all  mothers  share 


50     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

in  common,"  says  Sadie,  "only  some  of  us 
manage  to  hide  it  better  than  others. ' ' 

Later  on  Sadie  sent  down  a  couple  of  service 
flags  and  from  the  top  of  each  little  shack  they 
floated,  just  as  brave  and  snappy  as  them  from 
the  big  houses  along  the  Post  Road.  It  was 
mighty  interesting  too,  to  see  the  change  a  few 
weeks  in  camp  could  make  in  Buck  Kinney. 
Why,  when  he  come  back  on  his  first  leave  and 
I  saw  this  straight-backed,  square-shouldered 
young  soldier  swellin'  around  town  I  hardly 
knew  him  for  the  slouchy  young  pool-hound  that 
had  shuffled  off  with  the  draftee  squad  a  month 
or  so  before. 

"Well,  Buck,"  says  I,  "you  sure  look  like  a 
reg'lar  Hun  swatter  now." 

He  grins  pleased.  "Believe  me,  Professor," 
says  he,  "if  I  ever  git  near  enough  I'm  goin'  to 
git  me  one  of  them  square-heads  all  by  myself. 
I'll  git  him  right,  too." 

"That's  the  stuff,  Buck,"  says  I.  "And 
how's  Tubby  comin'  on?" 

"Him?"  says  Buck.  "Oh,  I  d'now.  All 
right,  I  expect." 

"But  he's  in  the  same  company,  ain't  he?" 
says  I.  "You  ain't  still  keepin'  up  the  old  feud, 
are  you?" 

Buck  scrapes  his  toe  sheepish.  "We — we 
don't  have  no  truck  with  one  another,"  says  he. 

And  I  was  almost  as  much  jarred  when  I 


TOUCHING  ON  THE  KINNEYS       51 

saw  Tubby  in  his  uniform  for  the  first  time. 
They'd  drilled  about  twenty  pounds  off  him,  I 
should  judge.  He  didn't  waddle  when  he 
walked,  and  that  pasty,  rubber-collar  com- 
plexion of  his  had  been  tinted  up  by  the  sun 
and  wind  until  his  round  face  looked  like  the 
bottom  of  a  copper  pan.  Him  and  his  father 
paraded  around  town  all  one  Saturday  after- 
noon, and  the  folio  win'  Sunday  mornin'  was  one 
of  the  few,  I'll  bet,  when  Bruce  didn't  wake  up 
with  a  hang-over. 

It  was  after  this  bulletin  came  from  camp 
about  how  Bucky  had  been  made  a  corporal 
though,  that  Scott  begun  to  show  signs  of 
sprucin'  up.  When  he  holds  me  up  to  tell  me 
about  it  I  notice  that  he's  shed  the  hip  rubber 
boots  for  a  pair  of  new  canvas  sneakers,  that 
he's  had  a  shave,  and  that  his  breath  don't 
remind  one  of  the  lee  side  of  a  distillery. 

'  *  Whaddye  know  about  that ! ' '  says  he.  * '  Cor- 
poral! Guess  that's  goin'  some,  ain't  it? 
Maybe  he'll  be  a  major  by  the  time  he  gits 
home. ' ' 

1  'There's  no  telling,"  says  I. 

Next  I  know  Scott  has  quit  the  fish  and  clam 
business  and  has  gone  to  work  steady  in  a  ship- 
yard. He  always  was  handy  with  tools,  but 
when  I  heard  how  much  he  was  pullin'  down  a 
week  it  got  a  gasp  out  of  me.  It  wasn't  long 
either,  before  Bruce  Kinney  has  followed  suit 


52     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

by  gettin'  a  job  in  a  machine  shop  that  was 
turnin'  out  airplane  parts. 

And  say,  the  way  them  two  Kinney  families 
proceeded  to  bloom  out!  First  thing  they 
splurged  on  was  music  machines,  and  from  then 
on  you  could  hear  jazzy  melodies  floatin'  over 
the  marshes  'most  any  time  of  day  or  night. 
Before  long  Scott  had  invested  in  a  little  speed 
boat,  to  run  back  and  forth  to  the  shipyard  in, 
while  Bruce  blows  himself  to  a  second-hand 
motor  cycle  with  one  of  these  wife-killin'  at- 
tachments that  he  could  hook  on  the  side.  And 
Sundays  and  Saturday  afternoons  while  one 
family  was  chuggin'  around  the  Sound  in  the 
launch,  the  other  was  scootin'  and  bumpin'  over 
the  Post  Road.  It  was  some  sight,  too,  to  see 
all  five  of  the  Bruce  Kinneys  stowed  in  and 
draped  onto  that  motor  cycle,  Mrs.  Bruce  bil- 
lowin'  up  and  down  alongside,  the  baby  in  a 
basket  on  the  handle  bars,  and  an  American  flag 
wavin'  over  the  lot. 

But  with  all  these  changes  they  didn't  mix 
a  bit  more  than  they  had  before.  Not  even 
when  the  word  come,  along  in  October,  that  the 
two  boys  had  been  loaded  into  a  transport  and 
been  shipped  across.  Durin'  the  weeks  that  fol- 
lowed I  expect  they  was  just  as  anxious  as  any 
of  our  swell  neighbors  whose  boys  was  lieu- 
tenants or  captains  but  was  runnin'  the  same 
risk  of  bein'  sent  to  the  bottom  by  U-boats. 


TOUCHING  ON  THE  KINNEYS       53 

Course,  these  people  began  to  get  cables,  but 
nothing  like  that  came  through  from  Buck  or 
Tubby. 

At  last,  though,  Bruce  comes  speedin'  into 
the  yard  one  evenin'  on  his  bone-shaker  all 
excited.  They'd  had  a  letter.  Not  being  much 
of  a  descriptive  writer  Tubby  hadn't  said  much 
in  it.  Mainly  he  told  how  good  the  grub  was  on 
the  transport  and  what  a  whale  of  a  big  steamer 
he  was  on.  Incidentally,  though,  he'd  men- 
tioned that  they  was  safe  in  a  rummy  lookin' 
port  and  was  about  to  land. 

" Isn't  that  perfectly  splendid  news!"  says 
Sadie.  ' '  I  suppose  your  brother  has  heard  from 
his  boy,  too?" 

Bruce  hunches  his  shoulders  and  says  he 
don't  know. 

"Do  you  mean  you  haven't  told  him  about 
getting  this?"  demands  Sadie. 

Bruce  admits  that  he  hasn't. 

"How  thoroughly  heartless!"  says  Sadie. 
"Then  I  shall  go  down  and  tell  him  at  once." 

Bruce  sort  of  hangs  his  head  but  he  don't 
make  any  move  towards  ditchin'  the  feud. 
Neither  would  Scott,  though  Sadie  gives  both 
families  an  earful  as  to  what  she  thinks  of  'em. 
They  don't  seem  ugly  about  it  any  more. 
They're  just  content  to  let  things  drift  along  as 
they'd  been  goin'  for  so  many  years. 

So  it  was  that  way  all  winter.     First  one 


54     SHOKTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

fam'ly  would  get  a  letter,  then  the  other,  but 
there  was  no  comparin'  of  notes  or  swappin' 
news. 

"How  silly  of  them!"  says  Sadie.  "When 
they  might  be  of  so  much  help  and  comfort  to 
each  other." 

"I  expect  it's  the  old  Kinney  strain  comin' 
out,"  says  I.  "Way  back  there  must  have  been 
a  grandfather  with  long  ears. ' ' 

Then  along  towards  last  spring,  you  know,  we 
begun  to  take  a  personal  interest  in  the  casualty 
lists.  I  got  in  the  habit  of  glancin'  through  the 
names  every  day.  But  somehow  when  I  first 
run  across  this  item  under  the  "Wounded  in 
Action"  line  I  didn't  quite  take  it  in.  "  l Mar- 
vin J.  Kinney,'  "  I  reads,  "  'Rockhurst,  N.  Y.' 
Why,  why — Sadie!"  I  sings  out.  "Come  look 
at  this." 

'  *  Why,  that 's  Tubby ! ' '  she  gasps.  ' '  I  wonder 
if  Bruce  Kinney  knows  ? ' ' 

It  didn't  take  us  long  to  get  into  the  little 
roadster  and  shoot  down  there.  And  Bruce  had 
heard.  The  telegram  from  the  War  Department 
had  come  that  afternoon,  while  he  was  off  at 
work,  and  now  he  was  sittin'  there  starin' 
at  it  under  the  kitchen  lamp,  with  the  whole 
fam'ly  gathered  around  sort  of  dumb  and 
scared. 

"Yes,"  says  he.    "They— they  got  Tubby." 

Well,  we  soothed  'em  down  as  much  as  we 
could,  tellin'  'em  how  ninety  per  cent  of  the 


TOUCHING  ON  THE  KINNEYS       55 

wounded  got  patched  up  again  as  good  as  new, 
and  suggestin'  that  maybe  it  wasn't  serious, 
after  all.  But  Bruce  shakes  his  head  gloomy. 
He  knew  they'd  got  Tubby. 

"He  was  a  good  boy,  too,"  says  Bruce,  still 
starin'  dry-eyed  at  the  message.  Then  he  adds, 
"Damn  them  Huns!" 

Must  have  been  two  or  three  days  later  that 
we  had  a  call  from  Scott  Kinney,  right  in  the 
middle  of  our  dinner.  He  brings  in  an  evenin' 
paper,  one  that  I  hadn't  read  careful,  and  points 
to  a  few  lines  at  the  bottom  of  the  war  news. 

' '  Jest  read  that, ' '  says  he,  in  kind  of  a  shaky 
voice. 

Which  I  does.  "  'Corporal  Roland  B.  Kin- 
ney.' Why,  that's  your  Bucky,  ain't  it?" 
says  I. 

He  nods.    "Go  on,"  says  he. 

"Well,"  says  I,  "he's  got  the  D.S.C." 

"It's  a  cussed  shame,  too,"  breaks  out  Scott. 
"I  thought  they  didn't  let  them  boys  booze  much 
in  th'  army." 

"No,  no,"  says  I.  "You  got  it  all  wrong, 
Scott.  Not  the  D.T.'s.  This  is  the  D.S.C.— 
Distinguished  Service  Cross.  He's  pulled 
something  heroic.  Understand?  You  didn't 
read  it  all.  'For  exceptional  bravery  during 
recent  action  on  the  Toul  sector.'  Good  work! 
Bully  for  Buck.  Eockhurst  will  be  proud  of 
him." 

I  guess  I  got  it  through  his  head  at  last  but 


56     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

he's  still  kind  of  vague  about  it.  He  wants  to 
know  if  there  ain't  any  way  of  findin'  out  just 
what  it  was  Bucky  had  done.  Couldn't  I  ask 
someone  in  Washington? 

As  it  happens,  I  could.  And  for  a  wonder 
the  query  didn't  get  lost  in  the  red  tape.  In 
less'n  a  week  I  had  a  fairly  full  report  of  the 
whole  affair,  and  when  Sadie  had  read  it,  too, 
we  just  sat  and  gazed  at  each  other  for  a  couple 
of  minutes  without  savin'  a  word. 

She's  the  first  one  to  break  the  spell. 
"Imagine,"  says  she.  "Those  two!" 

"Well,  we  got  to  tell  'em,"  says  I. 

So  this  time  we  pays  a  visit  to  the  shanty  on 
the  north  side  of  the  creek,  and  when  we'd  got 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Scott  Kinney  planted  side  by  side 
in  the  new  red  porch  settee  I  springs  the  news 
on  'em. 

"It  was  this  way,  Scott,"  says  I.  "Company 
F  had  been  holdin'  a  bridge  end,  with  the  Huns 
comin'  at  'em  strong.  Along  about  dusk  it  got 
too  hot  and  they  had  to  beat  it  back  across  the 
bridge,  bio  win'  it  up  after  'em.  About  an  hour 
later  Corporal  Kinney — which  is  your  Buck — 
discovers  that  one  of  his  men  is  missin'.  He'd 
been  posted  with  a  machine  gun  in  a  little  clump 
of  bushes  and  the  Corporal  had  noticed  him 
there  just  before  the  retreat.  He'd  waved  him 
to  come  in,  too.  But  he  hadn't  come.  What 
does  Bucky  do,  though,  but  streak  it  right  back 


TOUCHING  ON  THE  KINNEYS       57 

to  the  river,  where  the  shells  and  bullets  was 
churnin'  up  the  water,  swim  across,  scout 
around  the  opposite  bank,  and  come  back  lug- 
gin'  that  missin'  private  on  his  shoulder.  The 
man  had  been  plugged  pretty  bad  but  he  was 
still  alive,  and  from  late  bulletins  was  gettin' 
well  fast.  Classy  work,  eh?"  . 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Scott  glances  at  one  another  shy 
and  smiles  sort  of  proud. 

"There's  one  curious  thing  I  ain't  got  to 
yet,"  I  goes  on.  "Who  do  you  suppose  it  was 
that  Bucky  brought  back  through  all  that 
mess?" 

"Anybody  we  know?"  asks  Scott. 

"Not  very  well,  I  guess,"  says  I.  "It  was 
Tubby." 

"Hell!"  says  Scott. 

Mrs.  Scott  hadn't  said  a  word  up  to  then. 
She'd  been  sittin'  there  kind  of  workin'  her 
fingers  nervous.  All  of  a  sudden,  though,  she 
gets  up  and  gazes  across  the  creek. 

"Come,  Scott,"  says  she,  husky.  "Let's — 
let's  go  over." 

Sadie  and  I  didn't  leave,  either,  until  we'd 
seen  'em  paddle  across  and  disappear  in  the 
shack  opposite. 

"Well,"  says  Sadie,  "I  rather  think  that's 
where  the  Kinney  feud  comes  to  an  end." 

"Maybe,"  says  I.  "But  my  guess  is  that  it 
saw  its  finish  over  in  France." 


IV 

A   SIDE   BET   ON   BAET 

IF  I  hadn't  got  this  sudden  hunch  about 
wantin'  to  bore  holes,  I  expect  Bart  and  me 
"would  have  been  strangers  to  this  day.  You  see, 
I  was  puttin'  up  a  new  piece  of  apparatus  in 
the  Physical  Culture  Studio,  and  there  was  a 
couple  of  bolts  that  needed  to  go  through  a  2  x  4. 
What  I  should  have  done  was  to  call  up  the 
janitor,  tip  him  half  a  dollar,  and  had  the  thing 
fixed  right  away. 

Must  have  been  that  glimpse  into  Spratt's 
hardware  store,  over  on  Sixth  Avenue,  that  set 
me  off.  It's  a  weakness  of  mine,  gawpin'  into 
hardware  store  windows.  Let  me  get  one  glance 
at  a  lot  of  shiny  new  tools,  and  the  next  thing  I 
know  I'm  ranged  up  alongside  with  my  nose 
against  the  glass,  like  a  kid  outside  a  candy 
shop. 

Not  that  I'm  any  expert  at  usin'  such  things. 
I  don't  suppose  I  could  qualify  as  a  saw-and- 
hatchet  man  on  an  army  barracks  contract.  But 
every  now  and  then  I'm  tempted  by  some  dis- 
play, and  add  another  chisel  or  a  new  saw  or  a 

58 


A  SIDE  BET  ON  BART  59 

patent  drill  to  the  collection  of  weapons  I  'm  apt 
to  use  when  the  wood-butcherin'  fit  is  on  me 
strong. 

This  time  it  was  a  set  of  bits,  a  whole  dozen 
of  'em,  put  up  neat  in  a  varnished  box.  I  didn't 
know  the  size  of  the  bolts  I  wanted  to  bore  the 
holes  for,  but  I  took  a  chance  that  one  of  these 
bits  would  be  just  right,  and  breezed  into  the 
store. 

4 'Gimme  a  set  like  that  in  the  window,"  says 
I  to  the  clerk. 

"Set  of  what?"  says  he,  sort  of  crisp. 

"Why,"  says  I,  "a  set  of  what  you  got 
there." 

"There's  two  windows,"  he  comes  back. 
"We  got  wrenches  in  one  and " 

"Say,  if  your  feet  don't  hurt  you  too  much," 
says  I,  "step  outside  and  I'll  point  'em  out. 
It'll  save  time.  Now  look:  this  window,  third 
from  the  end,  second  row  up." 

"Oh!"  he  grunts.  "Babcock's  A  6's.  Why 
didn  't  you  say  so  ? " 

"Because  it  ain't  my  job  to  know  the  hard- 
ware catalogue  by  heart,"  says  I.  "Don't  have 
to  show  a  union  card  to  buy  tools,  do  I?  or  a 
water-front  permit!" 

"Huh!"  says  he,  gettin'  busy  with  the  wrap- 
pin'  paper. 

"Oh,  by  the  way,"  I  goes  on,  "I  expect  I'll 
have  to  have  a  bit-stock,  too." 


60     SHORTY  MoCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

"What  kind?  "says  he. 

"Hennessy's  Three  Star,"  says  I  offhand. 

"Ehl"  says  he,  starin'  stupid. 

"Or  a  Timkins  double-thrust,"  I  adds.  "It 
don't  matter  which." 

I  had  him  goin'  then.*  He  begins  walkin'  up 
and  down  behind  the  counter,  pullin'  out 
drawers  and  shuttin'  'em,  and  mutterin'  to  him- 
self, while  I  stands  back  and  watches  him.  Odd 
lookin'  gink  he  is.  Face  like  a  sheep.  Honest! 
One  of  these  long,  pointed  noses,  and  the  rest 
of  his  map  taperin'  away  on  both  sides,  with 
bat  ears  that  stick  straight  out  from  his  head. 
And  his  face  seems  to  have  a  permanent  straw- 
b'ry  tint  to  it,  like  he  was  sufferin'  from  a 
chronic  grouch. 

I'd  just  decided  that  we  was  quits,  and  was 
goin'  to  call  the  hunt  off  by  tellin'  him  I  wasn't 
any  connoisseur  of  bit-stocks,  when  a  big  full- 
faced,  grizzly-haired  gent  appears  from  the 
back  office — the  boss,  evidently — and  demands 
snappy  of  the  clerk  what  he's  lookin'  for.  The 
sheep-faced  one  mumbles  something  about  bit- 
stocks. 

"What!"  growls  the  big  gent,  glarin'  hostile 
at  the  clerk.  "Why,  you  mush-brained  fat- 
head! Been  here  fifteen  years  and  don't  know 
where  we  keep  the  bit-stocks!  Say,  hanged  if 
you  don't  grow  fooler  and  fooler  every " 

"My  fault,"  I  breaks  in.    "I  was  justkiddin' 


A  SIDE  BET  ON  BART  61 

him  along  by  askin'  for  a  brand  I'd  made  up." 

"Then  he  should  have  had  sense  enough  to 
know  it,"  says  the  boss.  "Here,  you!  Show 
the  gentleman  that  Spencer  ratchet.  There, 
right  under  your  nose,  you  numskull!" 

Course  that  was  kind  of  raw  stuff  to  pull  right 
before  a  customer,  and  I  felt  sort  of  mean  about 
lettin'  the  poor  fish  in  for  it.  When  the  big  gent 
had  drifted  back  to  the  office,  I  says  as  much, 
too. 

"Oh,  that's  nothing,"  says  the  clerk.  "It 
would  have  been  something  or  other,  anyhow. 
That's  what  I  get  right  along.  It's  what  I've 
always  got — always  will,  I  expect.  I'm  used  to 
bein'  bawled  out  by  old  Spratt." 

"Must  be  in  love  with  your  job,  then,"  says  I. 

"Say,"  says  he,  leanin'  over  the  counter  and 
whisperin'  hoarse,  "I'll  tell  you  something. 
There's  only  one  thing  in  the  world  I  hate 
worse  'n  my  job.  That 's  old  man  Spratt. ' ' 

"Then  if  I  was  you  I'd  quit  'em  both,"  says  I. 

' ;  Oh,  would  you  ? ' '  says  he. 

With  that  he  goes  on  doin'  up  the  parcels. 
When  he  comes  back  with  the  change  for  a  ten, 
he  seems  to  have  a  new  idea.  He  suggests  that 
if  my  place  ain't  too  far  away  he'll  bring  the 
things  around  when  he  goes  out  to  lunch.  As  I 
was  bound  for  a  chop-house  myself,  I  gave  him 
the  number  and  said  he  might. 

When  I  got  back  to  the  Studio  about  one- 


62     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

thirty,  there  is  Sheep-face  waitin'  for  me  with 
the  goods. 

"I  been  thinkin'  of  what  you  said  about 
quittin',"  says  he. 

"Ye-e-es?"  says  I. 

"And  I  got  a  good  mind  to  do  it,  too,"  he 
goes  on. 

"What  a  reckless  daredevil  you  are !"  says  I. 
"Accordin'  to  your  own  account,  you've  stood 
Spratt's  rough  stuff  for  years,  never  dreamin' 
of  cuttin'  loose  until  some  stranger  drops  in  and 
gives  you  the  idea.  Huh !  Say,  I'll  bet  you  five 
to  one  you  don 't.  Come ! ' ' 

"I — I  ain't  a  bettin'  man,"  says  he,  droppin' 
his  chin  and  shufflin'  his  feet. 

And  say,  come  to  size  him  up  close,  he 's  about 
as  cheap  a  lookin'  specimen  as  you'd  run  across. 
It  shows  in  his  face,  in  the  way  his  shoulders 
slump,  in  the  nervous  trick  he  has  of  twiddlin' 
his  fingers  when  he  talks. 

"I  see,"  says  I.  "The  main  thing  you  want 
is  to  do  a  little  safe  beefin'  about  your  boss. 
Eh?  "Well,  seem'  how  I  helped  pull  down  this 
last  blast,  I  guess  I  can  stretch  the  willin'  ear 
for  a  few  minutes.  Go  on.  Works  out  his  dis- 
position on  you,  does  he?" 

"It  ain't  so  much  what  he  says,"  grumbles 
the  gent,  "it's  the  way  he  looks  at  me,  like  I 
was  a  yellow  dog  he  wanted  to  kick  into  the 
corner.  Why,  there's  times  when  he  don't 


A  SIDE  BET  ON  BAET  63 

speak  to  me  for  days  at  a  stretch.  And  only  him 
and  me  left  in  the  store  now.  There  used  to 
be  five  or  six  of  us — more  than  that  when  I  first 
came;  but  since  the  neighborhood  has  changed 
so  much  business  has  fallen  off,  and  they've 
been  let  go,  one  by  one." 

"You  managed  to  stick,  though,"  I  suggests. 

" Because  I  got  the  lowest  pay  of  any,"  says 
he, ' '  and  did  the  most  work.  Besides,  I  was  the 
one  he  could  always  cuss  out  when  he  felt  like 
it.  He  didn't  begin  that  until  after  I  got  mar- 
ried and  he  thought  I  wouldn't  dare  leave  on 
account  of  the  wife.  That's  the  kind  he  is — a 
big-mouthed  bully. ' ' 

"Oh,  come!"  says  I.  "Spratt  didn't  strike 
me  as  bad  as  all  that." 

"You  don't  know  him,"  says  the  clerk. 
"He's  mean  clear  through.  And  he  thinks  he's 
so  much  better  than  I  am.  Treats  me  like  I  was 
dirt  under  his  feet.  Why?  Tell  me  that,  will 
you?  Because  he's  my  boss  and  I'm  only  hired 
help?  Or  just  because  he's  got  more  money 
than  I  have?  Say,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  a  little 
slip-up,  years  ago,  it  might  have  been  the  other 
way  round.  Yes,  sir.  I  might  have  had 
enough  to  buy  and  sell  old  Spratt  four  times 
over. ' ' 

"You  don't  say!"  says  I,  a  bit  curious. 
"How  was  that?" 

"I  got  a  rich  uncle  out  in  Michigan,"  says  he. 


64     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

"He  brought  me  up,  was  goin'  to  leave  me  his 
pile  and  all  that,  only — well,  I  got  in  a  scrape. 
I  was  runnin'  with  kind  of  a  swift  crowd  of 
young  fellows  then.  They  got  me  into  a  poker 
game,  and  I  lost  a  lot  of  money,  more  'n  I  could 
pay.  They — they  made  me  sign  his  name  to  a 
check. ' ' 

"Bad  business,"  says  I,  shakin'  my  head. 

"It  was  only  for  thirty  dollars,"  says  he, 
"but  what  made  Uncle  Zeb  so  wrathy  was  when 
he  found  out  I'd  lost  it  at  poker,  instead  of 
bein'  robbed,  as  I  told  him.  You  know,  he's  one 
of  the  religious  kind,  deacon  and  all  that;  but 
he  had  an  awful  temper.  And  swear!  I 
thought  he  was  goin'  to  skin  me  alive  that  night, 
him  and  me  locked  in  a  room  alone.  It  was 
along  in  March,  and  a  young  blizzard  goin'  on; 
but  when  he  got  through  lammin'  me  around, 
he  threw  me  out  into  the  snow  as  careless  as  if 
I'd  been  a  rat  or  something.  I  was  about  all  in 
then,  and  he  warned  me  if  I  didn't  clear  out,  or 
ever  came  back,  he'd  finish  the  job." 

"Some  uncle,  I  should  call  that,"  says  I. 
"You  cleared  out,  eh?" 

'  *  You  bet  I  did, ' '  says  he.  "I  knew  one  of  the 
brakemen  on  the  night  freight,  and  when  it  came 
along  he  let  me  crawl  into  the  caboose.  By 
morning  I  was  halfway  to  Detroit.  Many  a  time 
since  I've  wished  I'd  dropped  in  a  drift  that 
night  and  had  it  all  over  with." 


A  SIDE  BET  ON  BART  65 

"You  look  like  you'd  been  up  against  it,  Mr. 
• — er — what's  the  name?"  I  asks. 

"Nurn,"  says  he. 

1  'Eh?"  says  I.  " Once  more  with  that.  Spell 
it." 

"N — u — r — n,"  says  he.  ''Bartholomew 
Num. ' ' 

"It's  a  perfect  fit,"  says  I.  "But  we  might 
as  well  have  the  rest  of  this  tragedy  of  yours, 
Bartholomew.  After  gettin'  yourself  Simon 
Legreed  by  Uncle  Zeb,  how'd  you  come  to 
pike  for  New  York  and  pick  out  a  boss  like 
Spratt?" 

"I  didn't,  right  away,"  says  Nurn.  "It  was 
four  or  five  years  before  I  landed  here.  I  was 
just  driftin'  around.  Seems  like  I  never  did 
anything  by  plan.  Things  just  happened  to  me. 
I  got  jobs  here  and  there,  but  I  couldn't  seem  to 
stick.  Then  I'd  have  to  move  on.  I  never  was 
very  strong,  so  lots  of  the  work  I  tackled  was 
too  hard  for  me.  Some  of  them  gang  foremen 
used  me  pretty  rough,  too.  One  broke  my  jaw 
with  a  punch  of  his  big  fist.  Another  hit  me 
with  a  shovel.  I  was  in  the  hospital  three  weeks 
after  that,  in  Buffalo. 

"A  couple  of  times  I  came  near  starving. 
Once  was  right  here  in  New  York,  over  in 
Bryant  Park.  I  could  show  you  the  very  bench. 
That  was  when  big  Pat  Scully  found  me.  He 
used  to  be  a  porter  at  Spratt 's.  He  picked  me 


66     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

up,  fed  me  a  beef  stew,  and  got  me  the  job. 
That's  how  I  come  to  be  there  now." 

4 'But  you  went  and  got  married,"  I  puts  in. 
"Did  that  on  your  own  motion,  I  expect?" 

"Ye-e-es,  in  a  way,"  says  Bart.  "It  was  like 
this:  Backin'  up  to  the  rear  of  Spratt's  used  to 
be  a  restaurant.  Luella,  she  worked  there, 
washin'  dishes.  We  used  to  see  each  other  at 
odd  times.  She  wasn't  much  to  look  at,  any 
more  'n  me,  but  we  kind  of  got  acquainted.  She 
didn't  have  any  folks,  either,  and  she  was  havin' 
a  rough  deal,  too.  We  told  each  other,  swapped 
our  troubles,  as  you  might  say,  and  I  suppose 
we  felt  sorry  for  one  another.  I  don't  remem- 
ber which  one  of  us  it  was  said  the  word,  but 
first  thing  I  knew  we  was  married  and  livin'  in 
a  couple  of  back  rooms  over  on  Eighth  Avenue. 
We're  there  now." 

"Any  kids?"  I  asks  him. 

Bart  shakes  his  head.  "I  don't  know  how 
we  'd  have  fed  'em  or  taken  care  of  'em  if  there 
had  been  any,"  says  he.  "I  don't  even  know 
what '11  become  of  us  if  I  quit  the  store  or 
old  Spratt  takes  a  notion  to  close  up,  as  he 
threatens.  I'm  over  forty  now,  and  not  very 
well.  My  stomach  ain't  right;  I  have  dizzy 
spells.  And  Luella  couldn't  do  much.  We — we 
r— -well,  you  see  how  it  is." 

I  nods.  I  was  beginnin'  to  squirm  over 
some  of  the  brash  things  I'd  said  to  Num. 


A  SIDE  BET  ON  BART  67 

Poor  cuss!  Life  hadn't  been  much  of  a  picnic 
for  him.  No  wonder  he  had  that  cheap  look  on 
his  face. 

"Never  heard  any  more  from  Uncle  Zeb?"  I 
asks. 

"Never  tried,"  says  he.  "I  don't  even  know 
whether  he's  still  livin'  or  not.  He  was  mighty 
tough  when  I  left. ' ' 

"How  would  it  be,"  says  I,  "if  you  was  to 
write  him  a  letter,  sayin'  you  was  sorry  for 
that  bad  break  you  made  when  you  was  a  young- 
ster, but  how  you'd  lived  straight  ever  since, 
and  what  a  tough  time  you  'd  had  ?  Give  him  the 
whole  tale,  as  you've  put  it  to  me — about  Luella 
and  all." 

Bartholomew  stares  at  his  shabby  shoes  a 
minute  or  so;  then  he  lifts  them  shifty  eyes  of 
his. 

"I  don't  believe  it  would  do  any  good."  says 
he.  "He  was  a  hard  man — Uncle  Zeb.  Great 
one  to  keep  a  grudge.  Besides,  maybe  he's 
dead." 

"It  wouldn't  cost  much  to  try  it  on,"  says  I. 
"He  might  do  a  little  something  for  you." 

"I  ain't  ever  begged  from  anybody,"  says 
Num.  "Not  a  cent." 

"I  wouldn't  call  this  beggin',  exactly,"  says 
I.  "If  there  was  nobody  else  for  him  to  leave 
his  money  to,  you  got  a  right  to  come  in  for 
some  of  it,  anyway.  Why  not  take  a  chance?" 


"I — I'll  talk  it  over  with  Luella,"  says  he. 
"Much  obliged,  Professor  McCabe.  You — you 
don't  know  how  much  good  it's  done  me  to — to 
tell  somebody." 

And  say,  blamed  if  them  narrow-set  eyes  ain't 
leakin'  as  he  turns  and  drifts  out.  Swifty  Joe, 
who  always  has  an  ear  stretched  and  an  eye 
squinted,  slides  in  from  the  gym  just  then. 

"I  tried  givin'  that  skate  the  steer,"  says  he, 
"but  he  wouldn't  have  it.  Did  he  work  a  touch 
on  you  ? ' ' 

' '  Not  yet, ' '  says  I. 

"He  will  if  he  ain't  blocked  off,"  says  Swifty. 
"He's  no  good,  that  one,  believe  me." 

Just  to  ease  my  mind,  I  dropped  in  to  see 
Spratt  next  day  while  Bart  was  out  hittin'  the 
lunch-counter,  and  registered  my  alibi  for  him 
a  little  stronger.  I  explains  how  it  was  that 
Nurn  was  chasin'  around  foolish  when  he  came 
in,  and  says  I  wouldn't  want  to  feel  I'd  got  him 
canned  or  anything. 

"Oh,  him!"  says  Spratt,  hunchin'  his  shoul- 
ders. "Never  fear.  I'm  through  trying  to  fire 
him.  He  always  comes  begging  back,  so  what's 
the  use  ?  The  only  way  I  can  get  rid  of  him  is 
to  close  up  shop — or  die,  I  suppose." 

He  grins  as  he  says  it,  and  I  knew  then  he 
wasn't  half  so  bad  as  Bartholomew  had  tried  to 
make  out.  He's  one  of  these  husky,  hearty  old 
boys,  Spratt,  with  no  patience  at  all  for  weak- 


A  SIDE  BET  ON  BART  69 

lings  such  as  Nurn,  and  lie  takes  no  pains  to 
hide  it. 

"Well,  it  must  have  been  a  fortnight  after- 
wards when,  one  noon,  Bartholomew  comes 
scuffin'  into  the  front  office  with  his  face  all 
flushed  an'  his  little  eyes  twitchin'. 

"Say,  Professor,"  he  begins,  "you  lost  that 
bet.  I've  quit  him,  cold." 

"  Eh  ? "  says  I.    "  Oh !  Spratt,  you  mean ! ' ' 

"Yes,  sir,"  says  he.  "But  you  were  right 
about  Uncle  Zeb.  I've  heard  from  him. 
Thought  I  was  dead  all  these  years.  I  expect, 
too,  he  figured  he'd  done  it.  Anyway,  he  says 
he's  worried  a  lot.  Wants  me  to  come  on  and 
see  him.  Sent  me  a  hundred  to  do  it  on.  "What 
do  you  know  about  that?"  And  he  waves  a 
letter. 

' '  Well,  well ! ' '  says  I.  ' '  And  your  first  move, 
I  suppose,  was  to  hand  old  Spratt  a  few  crisp 
remarks  f ' ' 

Bartholomew  scowls  a  bit. 

"I  sure  meant  to,"  says  he,  "but  somehow  I 
—I  didn't  say  much  except  that  I  was  through." 

"Yes?"  says  I.  "What  does  Spratt  have  to 
say  to  that  jolt?" 

"Ah,  he  only  growls  something  about  good 
riddance — the  old  sorehead!"  says  Nurn. 
"Thinks  I'll  come  sneakin'  around  again  to- 
morrow. He'll  see.  We're  off  for  Michigan  to- 
night— me  and  Luella.  We  may  not  come  back, 


70     SHORTY  McOABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

either.  I  shouldn't  wonder  but  Uncle  Zeb  would 
let  us  stay." 

"Then  here's  hopin',"  says  I,  givin'  him  the 
grip.  "And  the  best  of  luck." 

Let's  see,  that  was  some  time  before  Christ- 
mas. And  in  a  month  I'd  almost  forgotten 
there  was  such  a  person  as  Bartholomew  Nurn. 
I  expect  if  I'd  gone  shoppin'  again  for  car- 
penter's tools  I  might  have  remembered.  But 
I  didn't.  So  here  the  other  mornin',  when 
Swif ty  tells  me  about  this  early  'phone  call  from 
the  Plutoria  and  says  it's  a  party  from  Michi- 
gan who  left  the  message,  all  I  can  do  is  scratch 
my  ear,  puzzled. 

"Yes,  but  wrhat  was  the  name?"  I  asks. 

"Sounded  like  Burns,"  says  Swifty.  "Said 
he'd  be  waitin'  in  the  lobby.  He  wants  you  to 
come  up  for  lunch. ' ' 

"Oh,  very  well,"  says  I.  "Anybody  that 
wants  to  see  me  that  bad  ought  to  be  accom- 
modated, hadn't  they?" 

So  about  twelve-thirty  I  chases  up  to  this 
dollar-a-minute  joint,  and  lets  the  guy  in  the 
rear-admiral's  uniform  shunt  me  through  the 
plate-glass  merry-go-round.  Then  I  strolls 
past  rows  of  palms — dustosa  cigarbuttis  variety 
— and  wanders  through  lanes  of  high-backed 
chairs,  scoutin'  for  someone  who  might  look  like 
his  name  was  Burns.  Nobody  give  me  the  glad 
hail,  though,  or  presents  me  with  a  meal  ticket, 


A  SIDE  BET  ON  BART  71 

and  I  was  wonderin'  if  Swifty  hadn't  got  the 
name  of  the  place  wrong  when  I  sees  a  pair  of 
ears  that  looked  sort  of  familiar. 

They're  round  bat  ears,  and  they're  juttin' 
out  from  under  the  edge  of  a  black  and  white 
plaid  cap  that  would  have  made  a  good  checker- 
board. No,  I  was  sure  I  didn't  know  anybody 
who  had  nerve  enough  to  wear  a  cap  like  that 
anywhere  except  at  a  polo  match  or  a  bull  fight. 
Besides,  the  gent  is  attached  to  one  of  these 
oatmeal  terriers  by  a  leather  lead.  Still,  I  was 
sure  I'd  seen  them  ears  before  as  well  as  behind. 
I  steps  along  until  I  gets  a  side  view.  And 
there's  that  sheep-shaped  face.  It's  Bartholo- 
mew. 

"For  the  love  of  soup !"  says  I,  swingin'  him 
round  by  the  arm  and  givin'  him  the  up-and- 
down,  from  the  new  yellow  shoes  to  the  Clan 
MacLaren  tie.  "Tell  me,  who's  done  this  to 
you?" 

"Oh!"  says  he,  beamin'  friendly  as  he  spots 
me.  "Hello,  Professor.  Got  my  message,  did 
you?" 

'  *  But  listen,  Bart, ' '  I  goes  on.  *  *  What 's  hap- 
pened? You  sportin'  around  in  a  joint  like  this, 
makin'  a  noise  like  excess  profits!  How  the 
blazes  can " 

"I  found  Uncle  Zeb,"  says  he. 

"Oh!"  says  I.    "How  was  the  old  boy?" 

*  *  Very  low, ' '  says  Bartholomew.    l '  He  lasted 


72     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

only  ten  days  after  we  got  there.  And  what  do 
you  think,  McCabe !  He  left  me  the  whole  pile 
— every  dollar. ' ' 

' '  Whe-e-ew ! ' '  says  I.    ' '  How  much  1 ' ' 

"I  wouldn't  dare  guess,"  says  he.  "The 
lawyers  ain't  figured  it  all  up  yet.  But  there's 
a  lot — real  estate,  mortgages,  bank  stock,  all 
kinds  of  bonds,  and  cash.  You  see,  there  wasn't 
another  relation  left,  and  after  the  way  he'd 

treated  me Well,  he'd  had  the  will  made 

out  for  years.  Anyway,  I  got  enough,  I  guess, 
to  get  what  I  want. ' ' 

"I  see,"  says  I,  grinnin'.  "And  I  take  it 
your  first  want  was  some  sport-cut  clothes." 

Bartholomew  looks  sort  of  pleased. 

"I  never  had  anything  but  cheap  black  suits 
all  my  life — the  kind  that  turn  green  and 
rusty,"  says  he.  "I  never  did  believe  in  this 
mournin'  stuff,  either.  And  say,  how  do  I  look 
in  'em?" 

' '  Great ! ' '  says  I.  ' '  Why,  you  look — well,  like 
you'd  been  oversubscribed." 

"Huh!"  says  he,  swellin'  out  his  chest. 
"You  ought  to  see  Luella.  Come  on.  She's 
waitin'  for  us  in  the  Egyptian  parlor." 

Yes,  Luella  was  worth  seem'.  I  wished  then 
I'd  known  her  before  they  found  Uncle  Zeb,  so 
I  could  have  appreciated  the  change.  But  I 
could  guess.  The  modistes  and  milliners  and 
beauty  doctors  hadn't  been  able  to  camouflage 


A  SIDE  BET  ON  BART  73 

that  heavy  kitchen-help  face  of  hers,  or  the  dull 
eyes.  They'd  done  their  best  with  what  they 
could  reach,  though.  Her  mud-colored  hair  had 
been  through  the  henna  treatment  and  tortured 
into  the  latest  shape.  She  had  jewelry  hung  on 
her  and  pinned  to  her  until  she  looked  like  a 
munition  worker's  bride.  The  waist  of  her 
dress  began  just  under  her  arm-pits  and 
stopped  about  eighteen  inches  from  the  floor. 
Poor  soul!  She  had  a  sort  of  pleadin',  scared 
look  in  her  eyes  that  told  the  whole  story.  It 
would  be  some  time  before  she  got  used  to 
appearin'  in  costumes  like  that. 

As  for  Bartholomew,  he  was  makin'  a  des- 
perate stab  at  playin'  the  lordly  plute.  But  he 
almost  apologizes  to  the  bell-hop  he  asks  to  take 
care  of  the  terrier  when  we  starts  for  the  white- 
and-gold  dinin'-room.  It's  two  or  three  min- 
utes before  he  can  get  a  head  waiter  to  see  him. 
He  shies  at  the  silver-framed  menu-card  like 
he  'd  been  handed  a  bomb,  and  when  the  bus-boy 
fills  his  water  glass  he  says,  "  Much  obliged, " 
and  then  giggles  nervous.  I  helps  him  out  by 
suggestin'  what  we  shall  have  for  lunch. 

When  we  gets  to  the  black  coffee,  though,  and 
he  lights  a  forty-cent  cigar,  Bartholomew  begins 
to  buck  up.  He  shoves  back  a  dollar  tip  at  the 
waiter  and  demands  an  ash-tray  real  rough. 

"I  ain't  told  you  the  big  news  yet,"  says  he, 
waggin'  his  head. 


74     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

"Let  it  come,"  says  I. 

He  looks  over  at  Luella  and  winks. 

"About  Spratt,"  says  he. 

"What!"  says  I.  "You've  been  around  and 
unloaded  your  mind  1 ' ' 

"  Better 'n  that,"  says  Bart.  "I've  bought 
him  out." 

' '  You  don 't  mean  it ! "  says  I. 

"Uh-huh!"  says  he.  "I'm  the  proprietor 
now.  I'm  runnin'  the  store.  Spratt — well, 
Spratt 's  workin'  for  me." 

You  could  see  the  buttons  strain  on  his  vest. 

"Say,"  says  I,  chucklin',  "that's  gettin'  back 
at  him.  Got  him  right  under  your  thumb  now, 
I  expect,  makin'  him  squirm!" 

Bartholomew  nods. 

' '  Course, ' '  he  goes  on,  * '  I  don 't  need  to  bother 
with  any  such  picayune  business  as  that.  I 
wanted  to,  that's  all.  It  don't  pay.  Not  now. 
I  can  make  it  pay,  though.  I  always  had  a  lot 
of  good  ideas  that  Spratt  would  never  listen  to. 
He'll  listen  now,  I  guess.  You  bet  he  will.  I 
ain't  sprung  'em  on  him  yet.  But  wait.  I'm 
goin'  to  change  the  whole  thing — put  in  a  line 
of  electric  light  and  bath-room  stuff,  shift  the 
counters  all  round,  hire  a  lot  of  clerks,  and  make 
things  hum.  You'll  see.  And  say,  when  I  get 
it  all  planned  out  I  want  you  to  drop  around 
some  day — I'll  tip  you  off  when — and  hear  me 


A  SIDE  BET  ON  BART  75 

tell  Spratt  what's  what  and  where  he  gets  off. 
Will  you?" 

I  said  I'd  be  delighted.  Well,  the  word  came 
yesterday.  I  was  there.  Some  of  the  new  force 
was  on  hand,  also  a  contractor  who  was  goin'  to 
juggle  the  fixtures. 

"See  here,"  says  Nurn,  struttin'  important, 
"I  want  this  side  counter  run  across  the  middle, 
right  here." 

"Why,"  breaks  in  Spratt,  "that  would  spoil 
the  whole  effect.  Now,  what  we  want " 

"We?"  comes  in  Nurn,  gaspy. 

"Say,  Bart,"  protests  Spratt,  droppin'  a 
heavy  paw  friendly  on  his  shoulder,  "you  know 
you're  no  more  of  a  business  man  than  you're  a 
he-angel.  Now,  just  leave  this  to  me.  I'll  tell 
McCarty  how  to  fix  it." 

"But  the  bath-room  stuff,"  says  Nurn. 

"Bah!"  says  Spratt.  "This  is  a  hardware 
store,  not  a  plumber's  shop.  Forget  it.  What 
we  need  to  put  in  for  this  trade  is  a  full  line  of 
cheap  junk — tack-hammers,  glass  knobs,  patent 
cork-pullers,  picture-hangers — all  that.  Any- 
thing that  can  be  used  in  a  flat  or  an  office.  I 
had  it  all  thought  out  years  back,  and  I'll  make 
a  go  of  it  for  you.  All  you  got  to  do  is  keep  out. 
Now  run  along  while  I  tell  McCarty  what  to 
do." 

Bartholomew  didn't  run.     Not  quite.     He 


76  SHOE-TY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

stood  there,  openin'  and  shuttin'  his  mouth  and 
twiddlin'  his  fingers. 

"But  see  here,  Spratt,"  he  begins;  "I " 

"Oh,  don't  bother  me  now,"  says  Spratt, 
brushin'  him  one  side  as  he  starts  to  tow 
McCarty  to  the  office. 

Then  Bartholomew  looks  up  and  sees  me 
standin'  there.  He  don't  say  a  word  until  he's 
joined  me  and  we  've  fetched  the  sidewalk. 

"It's  no  use,  I  expect,"  says  he.  "He's  still 
old  Spratt,  and  I — I'm  just  Num.  I'm  the  boss, 
though,  really.  I  ain't  goin'  to  let  him  forget 
that." 

"That'stalkin'!"  says  I. 

Yes  and  that's  about  all  it  was.  I  ain't 
spillin'  any  sympathy  for  Bartholomew  Nurn, 
though.  He  owns  a  dog  now;  and  some  day, 
after  he  gets  a  little  more  used  to  'em,  he's 
goin'  to  look  a  head  waiter  square  between  the 
eyes. 


GUESSING   WRONG   ON   HEEM 

I  AIN'T  makin'  any  excuses  for  knowin'  Herm 
Fickett,  nor  I  ain't  boastin'  about  it.  Some 
would  think  they  had  to  do  one,  while  some 
couldn't  resist  doin'  the  other.  As  for  me,  I've 
always  classed  Herm  Fickett  as  sort  of  a  human 
curio;  nothing  you'd  want  to  have  around  con- 
stant, or  put  in  a  parlor  collection,  but  a  speci- 
men that  was  worth  inspectin'  now  and  then 
when  there  was  nothing  better  to  do. 

That's  how  I  happened  to  be  ranged  up  along- 
side of  him  in  the  lobby  of  the  Ouija  Gardens 
that  evenin'  when  this  delegate  from  the  clam 
chowder  sector  drifts  in  and  proceeds  to  turn 
the  spotlight  on  Herm's  shadowy  past. 

Not  that  I'm  any  surprised  to  learn  he  has 
such  a  thing.  Anyone  would  know  he  had  just 
to  look  at  him.  Yet  while  I've  been  more  or 
less  well  acquainted  with  Herm  Fickett  for  say  a 
dozen  years  I  didn't  know  much  more  about  his 
past  than  I  did  his  future. 

Let's  see,  it  must  have  been  durin'  that  last 
exhibition  tour  of  mine  that  my  manager  picked 

77 


78     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

him  up,  either  in  Kansas  City  or  Denver,  and 
put  him  in  the  box  office  to  check  up  the  gate 
receipts  for  our  side.  Seems  to  me  he'd  been 
treasurer,  so  called,  of  one  of  them  punk  bur- 
lesque shows  that  had  gone  on  the  rocks.  Any- 
way, he  was  such  a  seedy  lookin'  party  that  I 
insisted  on  his  havin'  enough  so  he  could  spruce 
up  a  little.  And  what  does  he  blow  a  two  weeks ' 
stake  against  but  a  second-hand  soup-and-fish 
outfit  includin'  a  foldin'  opera  hat  two  sizes 
too  big. 

Maybe  he  wasn't  grateful,  though.  For  it 
turns  out  that  Herm's  abidin'  weakness  is  for 
open  face  clothes.  He  was  always  perfectly 
willing  to  rustle  his  chow  from  basement  bean- 
eries,  go  without  smokes  or  drinks,  or  bunk  at 
any  third-class  joint,  without  ever  puttin'  up  a 
holler.  And  by  day  he  'd  slouch  around  in  some 
old  plaid  suit  that  was  mostly  wrinkles  and 
grease  spots.  Come  lightm'-up  time  though, 
and  Mr.  Herman  Fickett  was  bound  to  appear 
in  all  the  glory  of  pearl  studs  and  braid-bound 
dinner  coat,  no  matter  whether  he  was  behind 
the  ticket  window  of  the  Chicago  Auditorium  or 
squeezed  into  the  dough  coop  of  the  skating  rink 
at  Red  Wing. 

You'd  think  it  was  what  he  lived  for,  this 
evenin'  costume  act  of  his.  Maybe  it  was.  Any- 
way, he  has  always  stuck  to  it.  Even  when  he 
'drifts  into  New  York  some  six  or  eight  years 


GUESSING  WRONG  ON  HEEM       79 

back,  so  near  broke  that  a  fifty  cent  room  at  a 
Mills  hotel  was  all  he  could  afford,  he  continues 
to  bloom  out  in  the  usual  regalia. 

Maybe  that  was  why  I  took  a  chance  on 
backin'  him  in  this  pool  room  and  bowling  alley 
enterprise  he'd  found  so  far  uptown  on  the 
"West  Side.  I  must  admit  it  didn't  look  good  to 
me,  for  that  end  of  Broadway  was  mostly  new 
apartment  buildings  then,  with  the  tenants  only 
beginning  to  trickle  in.  But  Herm  was  dead 
sure  if  he  could  put  up  enough  to  take  over  a 
five-year  lease  and  hold  on  until  the  district 
filled  up  he  'd  develop  something  big. 

Well,  he  did.  Inside  of  six  months  he'd 
changed  the  bowlin'  alley  into  a  movie  house 
and  fitted  up  the  pool  parlor  as  a  grill  room. 
Within  a  year  he'd  negotiated  a  license  and 
leased  the  vacant  lot  in  the  rear  for  a  beer 
garden. 

And  that  was  the  start  of  the  Ouija  Gardens. 
Maybe  you  know  the  place  now,  with  its  blazin* 
electric  sign,  its  four  floors  and  its  thirty  piece 
orchestra.  I  expect  you  can  get  just  as  poor 
a  dinner  there  for  $1.25  as  at  any  joint  in  town. 
And  afterwards  you  can  climb  up  to  the  Cherry 
Blossom  roof  and  watch  as  crude  a  program  of 
vaudeville  and  pictures  as  you  can  stand.  If 
you  ain't  satisfied  then  you  can  join  the  mob  out 
in  the  white  latticed  back  yard  and  tackle  a 
leathery  Welsh  rabbit  or  defy  ptomaines  by 


80     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

consumin'  a  chicken  lobster  that's  been  away 
from  salt  water  for  a  month  or  more. 

I  should  worry,  though.  The  few  hundred  I 
kissed  good-by  when  I  handed  'em  over  to  Herm 
Fickett  so  long  ago  have  come  back  to  me  a 
good  many  times  since,  and  although  I've  tried 
to  tell  him  he  could  buy  in  my  fifth  interest  any 
^time  he  wanted,  Herm  will  never  listen. 

"Ah,  let  it  ride,  Shorty,"  is  all  I  ever  get  out 
of  him. 

So  every  now  and  then,  when  I'm  spendin'  a 
lonesome  evenin'  in  town,  I  hop  on  the  subway 
and  slip  up  to  join  Herm  for  an  hour  or  so 
while  he  stands  there  watchin'  the  crowds  pour 
in.  His  favorite  spot  seems  to  be  just  in  the 
lee  of  a  Charlie  Chaplin  display  board.  If  you 
ever  saw  him  once  you'd  know  him  again.  Uh- 
huh!  That's  him — the  squatty  party  with  the 
short  neck,  the  long  arms,  the  puffy  little  eyes 
and  the  round  smooth  face  with  a  complexion 
like  a  Camembert  cheese  or  a  rubber  collar. 

So  it  can't  be  personal  vanity  that  leads 
Herm  out  there  night  after  night.  Hardly!  I 
expect  he  don't  know  how  much  like  a  dressed- 
up  toad  he  looks;  or  if  he  does  he  don't  care. 
But  there  you'll  find  him,  planted  solid  on  his 
short  legs,  with  them  little  eyes  fixed  steady  on 
the  crowd.  He  don't  seem  to  be  watchin'  for 
anybody  special,  and  he  never  turns  to  follow 
any  of  'em,  but  I'll  bet  there's  none  he  misses. 


GUESSING  WRONG  ON  HERM       81 

You'd  never  guess  either,  that  he  was  boss  of 
the  whole  outfit  unless  you'd  stayed  with  him  a 
while,  as  I  do.  Then  you'd  see,  from  time  to 
time,  people  sidle  up  to  him  and  whisper  things 
in  his  ear.  Sometimes  it's  the  stage  manager 
hurryin'  out  to  report  a  break  in  the  program, 
or  a  head  waiter  gettin'  advice  on  whether  some 
young  sport  is  good  for  credit  on  a  dinner  bill, 
or  more  often  some  grafter  tryin'  out  his  touch 
for  D.  H.  tickets.  And  they  all  get  their  de- 
cisions prompt,  too.  It's  either  a  nod,  or  a 
shake  of  the  head,  or  he'll  stop  to  scribble  his 
initials  on  a  pass.  Now  and  then  they  get  to 
his  roll  and  you  '11  see  him  peel  off  a  five  or  a  ten 
and  slip  it  to  'em  casual. 

I  grieve  to  state  also,  that  a  lot  of  'em  are 
fluffs;  some  just  Broadway  flappers,  only  be- 
ginning to  use  lip-sticks  and  eyebrow  pencils, 
while  others  are  bold-faced  Janes  with  henna  on 
their  hair  and  a  hard  look  in  their  eyes.  And 
most  of  them  men,  too,  are  a  sousy  looking  lot ; 
gamblers,  gun  fighters,  ward  heelers  and  the 
like,  if  I'm  any  judge.  How  well  Herm  knows 
'em  it's  hard  to  say,  for  nothing  shows  on  that 
leathery  face  of  his,  or  in  the  steady  eyes.  They 
all  seem  to  know  him,  though. 

So  it's  no  wonder  I  edge  off  and  ask  no  ques- 
tions afterwards.  Even  if  I  am  sort  of  a  silent 
partner  of  his  in  this  Ouija  Gardens  enterprise, 
I  don't  feel  exactly  responsible  for  Herm 


82     SHOETY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

Fickett's  present  any  more'n  I  do  for  his  past. 
He  can't  be  much  worse  than  he  looks,  and  if 
he's  any  better  he  conceals  it  successful.  All 
I'm  sure  of  is  that  I've  always  found  him 
strictly  sober  and  tendin'  to  business,  and  when 
it  comes  to  settlin'  a  deal,  as  straight  as  a  plumb 
line. 

On  this  particular  evenin'  I  must  have  been 
standin'  there  with  Herm  for  near  an  hour, 
neither  of  us  sayin'  much,  but  just  holdin'  the 
bridge,  as  you  might  say,  when  all  of  a  sudden 
this  stray  Rube  drifts  up  and  starts  lookin'  us 
over  sort  of  undecided.  He's  a  tall,  lanky,  loose- 
jawed  party  with  a  droopin'  lip  whisker  and  a 
slouch  to  his  shoulders.  And  from  the  blue 
cotton  shirt  and  the  brown  canvas  sneakers  it 
was  easy  to  tell  he  'd  wandered  in  from  the  edge 
of  the  map.  As  I'm  about  to  step  one  side  to 
let  Herm  handle  him  he  seems  to  make  up  his 
mind  which  to  tackle.  And  it 's  me  he  picks  out. 

"Your  name's  Fickett,  ain't  it?"  he  demands. 

"  No  such  luck,"  says  I.  "This  is  Mr. 
Fickett,  here." 

"Huh!"  says  he,  turnin'  to  Herm.  "So 
you  're  the  one,  hey  ? ' ' 

Herm  glances  at  him  careless  and  nods. 
"What  then?  "he  asks. 

"I'm  from  Setaugus,  Maine,"  says  the 
stranger. 

"Eh?"  says  Herm,  turnin'  on  him  quick. 


GUESSING  WRONG  ON  HERM       83 

' '  Thought  that  would  git  ye, ' '  says  the  other. 
"My  name's  Lonnie  Todd.  I'm  Maria  Todd's 
brother." 

If  he'd  figured  on  handin'  Herm  a  jolt  he 
wasn't  much  disappointed.  Anyway,  I'd  never 
seen  that  uneasy,  restless  look  come  into  them 
little  eyes  before. 

"I've  come  to  have  a  talk  with  you  about 
her, ' '  adds  Lonnie. 

You've  seen  these  country  smart  Alecks,  I 
expect.  "Well,  Lonnie  was  that  kind ;  only  about 
the  cheapest,  cheekiest  crossroads  pill  I've  ever 
seen  in  action.  I  was  lookin'  for  Herm  to  signal 
the  big  special  cop  he  has  patrollin'  the  front 
and  have  this  Todd  party  given  the  quick  run. 
But  Herm  just  stands  there  starin'  at  him 
vacant,  as  if  he  was  lookin'  through  and  be- 
yond him,  a  long  ways  beyond.  And  the 
next  thing  I  knew  Herm  has  taken  me  by  the 
arm. 

"Come,"  says  he.  "Let's  go  inside.  You, 
too,"  he  throws  at  Todd  over  his  shoulder. 

And  when  the  three  of  us  was  in  his  private 
office  he  locks  the  door  careful  and  proceeds  to 
slump  down  into  the  big  leather  desk-chair  that 
he  fits  so  snug. 

"I  hope  you  don't  mind,  Shorty,"  he  goes  on, 
"but  in  a  case  like  this  I  like  to  have  a  third 
party  on  hand. ' ' 

"Sure,"  says  I.     "I  expect  the  two  of  us 


might  handle  him  if  he  starts  anything  messy. " 

"It  isn't  so  much  that,"  says  Fickett,  "as  it 
is  hearing  what  he 's  got  to  say  for  himself,  for 
if  he's  just  lying " 

"Ah,  you  can't  bluff  me  off  that  way,"  breaks 
in  Lonnie.  "I  ain't  ascairt  of  you,  Herm 
Fickett,  any  more  'n  I  used  to  be  when  you  and 
the  rest  of  the  big  fellers  belonged  to  the  cider 
mill  gang. ' ' 

"I  give  up,"  says  Herm.  "You  must  be 
Lonnie,  all  right.  But  what's  the  idea  of  your 
hunting  me  out  ?  Did — did  Maria  send  you  ? ' ' 

"You  know  derned  well  she  wouldn't,"  comes 
back  Todd,  lettin'  on  to  be  indignant.  "I'm 
here  on  my  own  hook,  I  am. ' ' 

"That's  interesting,  too,"  says  Herm. 
1 1  How  'd  you  get  here  I ' ' 

"On  a  lumber  schooner,  out  of  Bangor,"  says 
Todd.  "I'm  cook.  And  as  we  were  unloadin' 
up  in  Harlem  River,  I  sees  this  ad.  of  yours  in 
th'  paper.  'Ooey-jar  Gardens,  Herman  Fickett, 
Manager,'  it  says.  An'  I  says  to  myself, 
'That's  him!  I'll  bet  a  dollar  it  is!'  Guess  I 
win,  don 't  I,  Herm  ? ' ' 

Fickett  nods.    ' '  And  now ! "  he  asks. 

"You've  come  to  be  quite  a  somebody,  ain't 
you,  Herm?"  says  Todd,  gazin'  around  at  the 
mahogany  desk,  the  pictures  on  the  wall  and 
finally  at  Fickett 's  broad  expanse  of  white  shirt 
bosom  with  the  diamond  studs  in  it. 


GUESSING  WRONG  ON  HERM       85 

"That  is  more'n  I  can  say  for  you,"  counters 
Fickett.  *  *  But  suppose  I  am  somebody  ? ' ' 

"I'm  gettin'  to  that,"  says  Todd,  leerin'  sug- 
gestive as  he  leans  forward  in  his  chair.  "You 
remember  the  little  old  house  on  the  P'int, 
where  you  used  to  come  sneakin'  around  to  see 
Maria?  Well,  it's  still  there.  So's  Maria. 
Maw's  dead,  and  paw's  dead,  and  I  ain't  been  to 
home  much  these  last  ten  years.  But  Maria, 
she's  stuck  right  there — waitin'.  I  guess  you 
know  who  fer,  Herm  Fickett." 

"Not — not  twenty-five  years'?"  says  Herm, 
kind  of  gaspy. 

"Yep,"  says  Todd.  "Jest  that  much  of  a 
fool,  Maria  was.  She  thought  you  meant  it 
when  you  said  you'd  come  back  fer  her." 

"Eh?"  says  Herm,  squirmin'  in  his  chair  like 
he'd  been  jabbed  with  a  pin.  "Did — did  Maria 
tell  you  that?" 

"She  shore  did,"  says  Todd,  waggin'  his 
head.  "Ain't  I  all  the  one  she's  got  left?" 

Herm  gives  him  a  disgusted  glance  and  starts 
something  sarcastic  but  chokes  it  off.  "Do  you 
mean,"  says  he,  "that  she  has  been  living  there 
on  the  Point  alone?" 

Mr.  Todd  favors  him  with  a  nod. 

"How?"  demands  Herm. 

"Well,"  says  Lonnie,  "for  a  spell  she  cooked 
up  at  Teeter's  boardin'  house.  Then  she  took 
to  doin'  washin'  fer  the  summer  people.  But 


86     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

mostly  she  gets  along  by  makin'  these  picture 
rugs  that  she  sells  to  the  cottagers." 

"Whaddye  mean,  picture  rugs?"  demands 
Herm. 

"Oh,  they're  crazy  things,"  says  Todd. 
"Hooks  'em  out  of  rags.  Makes  pictures  in  the 
middle.  Always  the  same — a  boat  with  a  feller 
in  it,  and  a  girl  standin'  on  the  shore  with  her 
arms  out,  and  a  big  moon  showin'  over  the 
spruce  trees.  She's  done  dozens  of  'em.  The 
summer  folks  thinks  they're  great.  She's  been 
wrote  up  on  account  of  them  rugs,  in  the  papers. 
They  call  her  the  picture-rug  woman.  But  say, 
they  don't  know  the  whole  story.  I  do  though. 
The  girl  waitin'  on  the  rocks  is  supposed  to  be 
her,  and  the  feller  who's  paddlin'  stiff  armed 
towards  her,  but  never  gittin'  there — well, 
that's  you." 

It's  about  the  first  time  I  ever  saw  Herm 
Fickett's  jaw  sag  or  them  steady  little  eyes  of 
his  turn  shifty.  For  a  minute  or  so  he  don't  say 
a  word,  and  then  he  asks,  sort  of  husky:  "How 
— how  do  you  know  it  was  meant  for  me?" 

Todd  lets  off  a  chuckle.  "I  didn't  until 
lately, ' '  says  he.  * '  She 's  always  been  one  of  the 
close  mouthed  kind,  Maria.  But  durin'  this  last 
sick  turn  of  hers  she  went  kind  of  looney  in  the 
head  and  all  one  night  she  kept  mumblin'  things, 
such  as,  *  Oh,  Herm !  Please  come  back,  like  you 
said  you  would.  You  '11  know  I  'm  waitin '  if  you 


GUESSING  WRONG  ON  HERM       87 

ever  see  one  of  my  rugs.  You'll  understand.' 
Stuff  like  that,  the  whole  night.  That's  how  I 
know. ' ' 

"When  was  this!"  asks  Herm. 

"  'Bout  three  weeks  ago,"  says  Todd,  "jest 
about  three  weeks  it  was.  She  was  some  better 
when  I  left.  Able  to  git  around,  anyway.  Some 
of  the  neighbors  was  lookin'  out  fer  her.  I 
guess  she  '11  pull  through.  What  I  want  to  know 
though,  Herm  Fickett,  is  this:  What  you  goin' 
to  do  fer  us?" 

"For  us?"  repeats  Herm,  starin'  at  him. 

1 '  Yep, ' '  says  Todd.    *  *  Fer  Maria  and  me. " 

"Huh!"  says  Herm,  indulgin'  in  a  hard, 
throaty  chuckle.  "I  thought  so!  Well,  Lonnie, 
all  I  intend  doing  for  you  is  going  to  happen 
right  now.  I  'm  going  to  have  you  kicked  off  the 
block." 

With  that  he  reaches  to  one  side  of  his  desk 
and  presses  a  button.  Course,  Mr.  Todd  puts 
up  more  or  less  of  a  howl,  but  inside  of  a 
minute  the  big  special  cop  has  him  by  the  collar 
and  is  draggin'  him  towards  the  sidewalk. 
Herm  never  gives  him  another  look  as  Lonnie  is 
yanked  out  kickin'  and  splutterin'.  All  Mr. 
Fickett  does  is  sit  there  gazin'  at  the  wall,  his 
pudgy  fingers  grippin'  the  chair  arms. 

Finally,  he  turns  to  me.  "Well,"  says  he, 
"you  heard?  You  see  the  sort  of  skunk  I  am?" 

I  expect  it  wouldn't  have  been  just  the  thing 


88     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

to  have  grinned  at  him.  But  I  wanted  to.  The 
idea  of  Herm  Fickett,  that  I'd  rated  about  as 
bad  an  egg  as  you  could  find  along  Broadway, 
gettin'  stirred  up  over  a  little  old  back  number 
romance  such  as  he  shows  on  the  screen  nearly 
every  night!  Yet  I  couldn't  put  it  to  him  that 
way.  So  I  switches  to  another  line. 

"I  didn't  know  you  was  a  State  of  Mainer, 
Herm, ' '  says  I. 

"Yep,"  says  he.  "I  was  born  in  Setaugus, 
same  as  Maria.  "We  went  to  the  same  little  red 
schoolhouse,  two  miles  back  in  the  woods.  And 
she  was  a  mighty  fine  girl,  McCabe.  It  was  all 
true,  what  Lonnie  said  about  my  promising  to 
go  back  for  her.  I  meant  to  do  it,  too,  when  I 
left,  to  play  the  drum  down  at  Peake's  Island 
that  summer.  But  I — I  drifted  a  good  ways  off. 
You  know.  I  got  mixed  up  with  the  show  game. 
"Worse  than  that.  I  had  to  shoot  a  man  once — 
come  near  being  stretched  for  it.  And  there's 
been  women.  Lord !  One  of  'em  near  ended  me 
with  a  knife,  down  in  Santa  Fe.  A  Mexican 
girl.  But  that  was  years  ago.  Up  here — well, 
what's  the  use?  You  wouldn't  believe  it,  but 
late  years,  since  I've  been  doing  so  well,  I've 
been  thinking  a  lot  about  Maria  Todd,  and 
wondering.  It's  kept  me  from — from  a  lot  of 
things.  Not  that  I'm  playing  myself  for  any 
saint,  but  I'm  different  from  what  most  folks 
think.  It's  time,  I  suppose.  I'm  past  fifty. 


GUESSING  WRONG  ON  HERM       89 

Fifty-three.  Think  of  that,  McCabe!  And 
Maria  Todd,  who  used  to  have  cheeks  like 
peaches  and  cream,  and  hair  like  so  much  sun- 
shine— Maria  '11  be  over  fifty  too.  And  all  this 
time  she — she's  been  waiting  for  me.  Shorty, 
do  you  know  what  I  'm  going  to  do  ? " 

I  admitted  I  didn't. 

* '  I  'm  going  back  for  her, ' '  says  Herm.  "  I  'm 
going  to-night — now." 

I  expect  I  must  have  gawped  at  him  foolish. 
The  idea  of  Herm  Fickett  as  a  bridegroom  sort 
of  stunned  me.  " Ain't  it  a  little  late,  Herm?" 
I  suggests. 

"Maybe,"  says  he.  "That'll  be  up  to  her. 
Let's  see,  I  can  make  the  11  o'clock  express, 
can't  I?" 

And  as  I  rode  home  that  night  I  tried  to  throw 
up  a  picture  of  Herm  coming  back  with  a  wife ; 
most  likely  a  faded,  dried  up  little  old  maid 
who'd  lived  all  her  life  way  up  on  the  coast  of 
Maine,  hookin'  rugs,  whatever  that  might  be. 
How  would  she  look  sitting  in  the  manager's 
box  up  on  the  Cherry  Blossom  roof,  or  taking 
dinner  in  the  grill  among  all  them  flossy  dressed 
West  Siders?  And  what  would  she  think  of 
some  of  Herm's  dizzy  lady  friends,  or  what 
would  they  think  of  her? 

'  *  No, "  says  I  to  myself.    * '  It  can 't  be  done. ' ' 

Course,  I  don't  mean  I  worried  myself  sick 
over  it.  I  don't  take  things  as  hard  as  that, 


90     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

'specially  when  they  ain't  any  closer  than  this 
was.  In  a  day  or  so  about  all  I  remembered  was 
that  Herm  Fickett  had  started  off  to  do  some- 
thing weird.  And  a  week  or  ten  days  later, 
when  I  gets  this  'phone  call  from  him,  I  had 
to  think  back  hard  to  make  the  connection.  He 
wants  me  to  come  up  that  evenin'. 

"I  got  something  to  show  you,"  says  he. 

And  as  I  hung  up  the  receiver  I  lets  out  a 
groan.  ' '  I  '11  bet  he 's  gone  and  done  it ! "  says  I. 

But  when  I  gets  to  the  Ouija  Gardens  I  finds 
Herm  at  his  old  post  out  front,  and  alone. 

"Well,"  says  I,  "is  it  a  case  of  wishin'  you 
happy  days?" 

He  shakes  his  head  solemn. 

"Oh!"  says  I,  "she  thought  it  was  too  late, 
eh?" 

Without  answerin'  that  he  unlocks  a  side  door 
and  beckons  me  to  follow  him  into  the  private 
office.  And  when  he 's  settled  himself  in  the  big 
leather  chair  and  lighted  a  fresh  cigar  he 
remarks:  "It  was  too  late,  Shorty." 

"Eh?"  says  I.  "You  don't  mean  she 
was " 

4 '  Yes, ' '  says  he.  '  *  The  day  before  I  got  there. 
I  was  in  time  to  see  about  the  funeral  and  so  on, 
but  that's  all.  She — she'd  got  tired  of  wait- 
ing." 

We  didn't  say  anything  more,  either  of  us, 
for  a  minute  or  so.  Then  he  begins  again. 


GUESSING  WRONG  ON  HEEM       91 

"But  I'm  glad  I  went,"  says  he.  "I  shall 
always  be  glad  I  did  that  much.  Else  I  wouldn't 
have  known.  Women  are  wonderful,  Shorty; 
that  is,  some  of  'em.  And  Maria  Todd — well,  I 
don't  know  as  I  can  tell  you  the  half.  I  ain't 
sure  I  quite  get  the  whole  of  it  myself.  It — it 
beats  hell  what  some  women  are." 

Then  I  waits  while  he  puffs  thoughtful  for  a 
spell,  until  he  goes  on.  "It  was  all  so,  Shorty," 
says  Herm,  "about  her  waiting,  and  about  the 
picture  rugs.  I  saw  some  of  'em.  Just  as 
Lonnie  said.  There  was  something  else, 
though;  something  he  didn't  know  about,  nor 
anyone  but  her.  Not  even  the  neighbors  across 
the  road.  They  all  thought  she  was  a  little 
cracked.  But  who  ain't,  a  little? 

"You  see,  Shorty,  it  was  just  a  poor,  weather- 
beaten  little  shack,  snuggled  in  among  the  rocks 
there  by  the  shore.  A  little  bit  of  yard  in  front, 
a  few  flowers,  a  big  spruce  at  the  back.  Just 
two  rooms.  One  was  sort  of  a  kitchen,  where 
she  cooked  and  worked  and  slept.  The  front 
part  was  bigger.  Kind  of  a  parlor.  She  had  it 
fixed  up  real  nice — white  curtains  at  the  win- 
dows, some  old  horsehair  chairs  with  tidies  on 
'em,  a  little  parlor  organ.  Only  her  best  friends 
was  ever  asked  in  there.  She  called  it  The 
Room.  And  across  one  side  was  hung  up  one  of 
these  old-fashioned  blue  and  white  bedspreads. 
Nobody  ever  guessed  there  was  anything  behind 


92     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

it,  until  that  morning  when  I  come  and  one  of 
the  women  was  helping  me  fix  things  up  for — 
for  the  funeral. 

"We  run  across  it  by  accident,  pulled  it  one 
side.  And  then  I  saw  what  she'd  been  doing 
all  them  long  winters  when  she'd  been  waitin'. 
It  was  a  big  thing,  nearly  as  big  as  the  bed- 
spread. Another  picture  rug.  But  not  like  the 
others.  This  showed  the  little  shack,  not  exactly 
as  it  was,  but  as  it  might  be — vines  and  flowers 
all  over  it,  smoke  pourin'  out  of  both  chimneys, 
a  neat  little  white  fence  all  around,  a  boat  pulled 
up  on  the  shore.  And  at  the  gate,  a  man  and  a 
woman — clinched  fond.  She  has  on  a  white 
dress,  and  a  white  veil  over  her  sunny  hair. 
Pink  roses  in  the  veil.  He  is  tall,  and  dark  and 
swell  looking.  You  might  not  guess,  Shorty, 
but  the  woman  was  meant  for  her,  and  the  man 
— for  me.  A  note  pinned  to  it  said  so. 

' '  You  see,  she  'd  worked  it  all  out — her  dream 
of  what  might  be.  Years  and  years  she  must 
have  worked  at  it,  believing  it  would  come  true. 
And  at  the  last,  just  before  she  gave  up,  she'd 
written  the  note.  If  I  didn't  come,  it  said,  she 
wanted  the  thing  put  away,  where  nobody  would 
see  it.  But  if  I  did  come,  no  matter  when,  I  was 
to  have  it,  and  she  hoped  everybody  in  the  world 
would  see  it,  so  they'd  know  she  was  right. 
Now  what  do  you  think  of  that,  Shorty?" 

I  don't  know  just  what  I  did  say.    I  got  out 


something.  It  was  beyond  me.  Besides,  I  was 
starin'  at  Herm  Fickett.  Was  this  the  same 
Herm  I  thought  I'd  known? 

And  then  all  of  a  sudden  he  bangs  his  big 
fist  on  the  desk  and  breaks  out  with:  "By  Gad, 
Shorty,  they're  goin'  to  see  it,  too!  Come." 

I  follows  him  out  into  the  inner  lobby;  and 
there,  framed  elaborate  in  beveled  gold  near  a 
foot  wide,  with  about  a  hundred  hooded  electric 
bulbs  floodin'  it  with  a  blaze  of  light,  and  hung 
where  the  thousands  that  pour  in  and  out  can't 
miss  it,  is  Maria  Todd's  hooked  rug  dream. 

I  don't  know  what  they  think  of  it,  them  folks 
who  stream  into  Ouija  Gardens  to  howl  at  cus- 
tard-pie comedy  and  chuckle  over  old  slap-stick 
acts.  I  guess  Herm  don't  know  either,  or  care. 
He  seems  satisfied. 

"And  every  night,  after  the  last  show,"  he 
goes  on,  "I  come  in  here  and  stand,  just  look- 
ing. I  like  to.  How  would  it  be,  Shorty,  to 
have  a  whackin'  big  vase  on  either  side,  and 
keep  it  filled  with  pink  roses?  Eh?  Gad,  I'll 
doit!" 

And  two  weeks  ago,  if  you'd  asked  me,  I'd 
have  said : ' '  Who,  Herm  Fickett  ?  Yes,  he 's  got 
about  as  much  sentiment  stowed  away  in  his 
system  as  there  is  sap  in  a  lamp  post." 


VI 

AND  THEN,    THERE   WAS   TODD 

As  for  me,  I  don't  know  whether  to  be  glad  or 
sorry  about  what  we  helped  Todd  to  do.  Just 
how  Pinckney  feels  about  it  I  ain't  sure,  either. 
Course  I  know  what  he  says.  But  what  Pinck- 
ney means  by  what  he  says  is  something  else 
again. 

11  Casuals  of  Kismet,  Shorty;  no  more,"  says 
he.  "We  served  merely  as  the  poor  pawns  of 
the  game." 

"Huh!"  says  I,  tryin'  to  look  like  I  was 
keepin '  up.  ' '  You  don 't  say  ? ' ' 

And,  after  all,  I  only  started  the  thing. 
Funny  about  me  and  Todd.  I  expect  we  'd  seen 
each  other  day  in  and  day  out  for  a  matter  of 
three  years  or  more,  without  either  of  us  ever 
battin'  an  eye  as  we  passed.  There  was  no 
cause.  He  might  of  known  who  I  was  and  he 
might  not.  Course,  it  was  plain  enough  about 
him.  There  it  was,  right  on  his  cap. 

But  Todd  wasn't  one  you'd  give  the  cheery 
hail  to  offhand  and  uninvited.  A  sour,  grouchy 
little  party.  You  could  tell  that  by  the  sag  to 
his  mouth  corners,  by  the  furrows  between  his 

94 


AND  THEN,  THERE  WAS  TODD   95 

thin,  sketchy  eyebrows,  and  by  the  droopy  hang 
of  his  sandy,  ragged  mustache.  Had  a  droop  to 
his  shoulders,  too. 

Well,  I  don't  know  as  I'd  be  so  chirky  if  I 
had  to  do  a  twelve-hour  trick  on  a  dinky  old 
passenger  elevator  six  days  in  the  week.  It's 
in  the  buildin'  next  to  where  I  have  my  Physical 
Culture  Studio.  When  he  wasn't  travelin'  up 
and  down  in  the  old  cage,  Todd  had  a  habit  of 
slippin'  out  to  the  doorway,  where  he'd  slouch 
just  inside,  scowlin'  over  the  black  bowl  of  his 
corn-cob  pipe  at  the  world  in  general. 

I  expect  I  got  so  I  didn't  notice  him  any  more 
than  the  ash-cans  he  used  to  roll  out  to  the  edge 
of  the  curb  mornin's. 

So  this  time,  when  I  finds  him  shakin'  his  fist 
at  the  broad  back  of  the  hook-nosed  lady  with 
the  big  sparks  in  her  ears,  I  was  all  for  brushin' 
by  as  usual.  Just  as  I'm  passin',  though,  he 
unlimbers  a  string  of  remarks. 

They  sure  were  emphatic  and  high-spiced 
remarks,  but  so  muffled  and  throaty  that  there 
was  no  chance  of  her  hearin'  'em.  Naturally,  I 
swings  my  head  to  look  after  a  party  who  was 
bein'  described  so  picturesque  and  uncompli- 
mentary, and  then  turns  to  take  a  curious  glance 
at  Todd.  Which  seems  to  be  his  cue  for  con- 
fidin'  his  further  emotions  to  me. 

1  'The  old  hippopotamus!"  he  explodes. 
"Fat  old  swine!  Look  at  her." 


96       SHOETY  MoCABE  GETS  THE  HAID 

"Eh?"  says  I.  "Annoyed  about  something, 
are  you  ? ' ' 

"Am  I?"  says  he.  "It's  a  wonder  I  don't  do 
murder  one  of  these  fine  days,  with  the  likes  of 
that  makin'  life  hard  for  me." 

"How's  that?"  says  I. 

"Why,"  he  snarls,  "comin'  down  here  twice  a 
week,  snoopin'  around  and  findin'  fault.  Ever 
since  she  bought  the  buildin'  it's  been  that  way. 
And  me  holdin'  the  job  for  goin'  on  four  years 
with  never  a  cross  word  from  the  boss.  But 
now — 'Vy  dond  you  the  sidevalk  sveep  oop?' 
1  Vot  is  it  you  smoke  in  your  dirty  pipe — rubber, 
eh?'  And  threatenin'  to  tie  the  can  to  me  every 
trip.  Trust  a  woman.  G-r-r-r ! ' ' 

"That's  right,"  says  I.  "Get  it  all  out  ef 
your  system  and  then  maybe  you'll  feel  better." 
And  with  a  grin  I  leaves  him  to  his  happy 
thoughts. 

Seems  to  break  the  ice  with  him,  this  little 
exchange.  After  that  he  never  fails  to  hold  me 
up  and  spill  his  troubles.  Yes,  he  had  a  lot  of 
'em,  mainly  havin'  to  do  with  the  snake- 
charmin'  sex.  It  was  one  day  when  the  old 
elevator  went  out  of  commission  and  the  repair 
gang  was  tinkerin'  it  up  that  he  finds  his  way 
up  to  the  Studio  and  gives  me  a  complete  bill 
of  complaint. 

"I  used  to  think  I  was  a  man,"  says  he, 
glarin'  savage  at  the  worn-out  toes  of  his  old 


AND  THEN,  THERE  WAS  TODD       97 

shoes.  "Now Well,  I  don't  know  what  I 

am.  It's  bein'  surrounded  and  hectored  so 
much  by  old  hens." 

"Meanin'  the  fair  sex?"  I  suggests. 

"Fair  be  blowed!"  says  he.  "Old  hens. 
That  Mrs.  Eosenbaum,  the  landlady.  She's  a 
fair  sample.  And  look  at  our  buildin'— full  of 
'em.  Madam  Jezinski,  what  runs  the  hair  shop 
on  the  second;  Madam  O'Bryne,  robes,  for 
another ;  and  all  them  milliners  and  typewriters 
and  corn  doctors  on  the  other  floors.  Every  one 
ready  to  bawl  me  out  any  time  of  day.  And  I 
have  to  stand  for  it — me,  Samson  Todd. ' ' 

"Samson,  eh?"  says  I,  sizin'  up  this  thin- 
chested,  squint-eyed,  booze-soaked  specimen  of 
human  wasp.  "Ain't  that  kind  of  a  misfit  name 
for  a  party  of  your  weight  ? ' ' 

"Maybe,"  says  he.  "Wished  on  me  by  an 
aunt,  out  of  dislike.  I  suppose  she  knew  I  was 
goin'  to  be  sickly  and  never  get  my  full  growth. 
But,  for  all  of  that,  I've  been  a  man,  more  or 
less,  until  I  got  stuck  here,  hoistin'  women  up 
and  down  all  day  long.  Nothin'  but  women. 
You've  seen.  Car's  always  full  of  'em,  mostly 
old  hens — cacklin,  jabberin',  jawin'  old  hens. 
And  then,  when  I'm  through  at  night,  home 
among  more  of  'em.  Yes,  three  more  old  hens 
at  home." 

' '  Steady,  there,  Todd, ' '  says  I.  "If  you  're  a 
Mormon  you  shouldn't " 


98       SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

''Think  I'd  marry  one,  let  alone  three?"  he 
snaps. 

Then  he  explains  how  he  lives  with  a  sister 
who's  a  widow  and  runs  a  boardin'  house. 
Sister  is  helped  out  by  an  old  maid  cousin  and 
an  antique  mother-in-law;  and,  accordin'  to 
Todd,  the  combination  is  one  that  would  drive 
a  saint  into  the  souse  class. 

"Jawin'  and  naggin',''  says  he,  "from  the 
minute  I  stick  my  head  in  the  basement  door  at 
night  until  I  sneak  out  in  the  mornin'.  I'd  like 
to  quit  'em  some  day  and  never  show  up  again." 

"Well,  why  not  I"  says  I. 

"Eh I"  says  he,  starin'  as  if  I'd  suggested  he 
tackle  some  miracle. 

"Listen,  Todd,"  says  I.  "You  come  beefin' 
to  me  about  the  way  you're  pestered  by  women. 
You  state  your  opinions  mighty  free  and  bold 
•• — when  they  can't  hear  you.  Know  what  you 
sound  like?  A  yellow  pup  yappin'  down  an 
alley.  Uh-huh.  Like  a  worthless,  measly  yel- 
low pup  that  would  run  if  a  two-weeks-old  kitten 
humped  its  back  at  him.  Now,  if  you  must  yap, 
do  your  yappin'  where  it'll  register.  Buck  up! 
Don't  be  an  imitation  man.  If  your  women- 
folk at  home  are  pickin'  on  you,  give  'em  as 
good  as  they  send.  Tell  'em  where  they  get  off. 
The  same  with  Mrs.  Rosenbaum.  Ten  to  one 
they'll  lay  off  it  after  that.  Anyway,  take  a 
chance.  That  is,  if  you  got  any  nerve  left." 


AND  THEN,  THERE  WAS  TODD   99 

He  takes  it  without  a  squirm,  all  except  that 
last  jab.  That  got  under  his  skin.  I  could  see 
him  stiffen  and  his  fingers  bunch  up. 

"You  think  I  ain't  got  any  nerve?"  says  he, 
gettin'  on  his  feet.  "I'll  show  you.  And  I'll 
show  them,  too." 

"Yes,  you  will — not,"  says  I  over  my  shoul- 
der, as  he  drifts  through  the  door. 

Maybe  that  was  rubbin'  in  the  salt.  I  didn't 
have  anything  special  against  Todd,  the  poor 
fish !  Only  I  didn't  want  him  to  get  the  idea  he 
could  run  in  here  and  give  me  an  earful  when- 
ever he  got  a  call-down  that  he  most  likely  de- 
served. And  I  had  no  more  notion  he'd  try  to 
follow  my  advice  than  I  did  of  seem'  him  turn 
handsome  overnight.  I  just  threw  it  off  casual 
and  careless. 

Must  have  been  nearly  one  o'clock  before  I 
got  a  chance  to  beat  it  out  to  lunch,  so  as  I 
swings  onto  Forty-second  Street  I'm  in  con- 
siderable of  a  hurry.  That's  how  I  happened 
to  plow  right  into  the  middle  of  this  young  mob 
of  females  bunched  about  the  next  entrance  be- 
fore I  noticed  anything  unusual.  But  by  the 
time  I'd  dodged  around  a  couple  and  caromed 
off  a  third  into  a  wide,  husky  party  in  a  blond 
transformation,  I  decides  to  slow  up.  It  was 
then  I  heard  this  chorus  of  wild  squeals  and 
panicEy  shrieks  floatin'  out  from  the  doorway. 


100     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

' '  What 's  happenin '  ? "  I  asks  an  excited  young 
lady  who's  hoppin'  up  and  down. 

"Oh,  it's  perfectly  awful!"  she  groans. 
"Can't  someone  stop  him?" 

"Stop  what — who?"  says  I. 

"That  wretch  in  the  elevator,"  says  she. 
"He'll  kill  them  all— I  know  he  will.  He  has  the 
car  full,  and  he 's  running  it  up  and  down  like  a 
crazy  man,  stopping  and  starting  jerky,  not  let- 
ting them  out,  and  swearing  something  fright- 
ful. They  say  that  Madam  Jezinski  is  in  there, 
and  that  two  girls  from  the  manicure  parlors 
have  fainted,  and " 

"It  ain't  Todd,  is  it?"  I  demands. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know  his  name,"  says  she. 
"It's  that  surly,  smelly  little  runt  with  the 
squinty  eyes — the  one  that's  always  here." 

"That 'shim,  "says  I.  "Todd."  And  I  does 
my  best  to  smother  a  grin. 

"They've  'phoned  for  the  police  and  the 
owner  of  the  building,  I  hear, ' '  says  the  young 
lady.  "I  wish  they'd  come  before  anything 
awful  happens." 

"Oh,  I  guess  it  won't,"  says  I,  "if  it's  only 
Todd." 

With  that  I  works  my  way  out  of  the  crowd 
and  starts  on,  chucklin'  a  bit.  So  Todd  had 
really  cut  loose!  He  was  takin'  it  out  in 
bouncin*  around  a  lot  of  his  pet  enemies. 


AND  THEN,  THERE  WAS  TODD     101 

Unique  way  of  gettin'  back  at  'em — and  one  that 
would  most  likely  earn  him  his  release.  But 
that  was  his  lookout. 

I  meant  to  stop  on  my  way  back  and  ask  some- 
body how  the  affair  came  out;  but  after  lunch 
I  took  my  reg'lar  stroll  up  Fifth  Avenue,  and 
ran  across  Pinckney  cruisin'  along  in  his  town 
car,  with  the  usual  results.  From  then  on  all 
schedules  was  off.  He  insists  on  my  climbin' 
in,  whirls  me  up  through  the  park  and  back, 
drags  me  into  a  picture  exhibit  on  the  return 
trip,  makes  a  stop  at  one  of  his  clubs,  and  lands 
me  at  the  Studio  again  about  three-thirty. 
Havin'  nothing  better  to  do,  he  says  how  he 
guesses  he'll  trail  along  in  too. 

"All  right,"  says  I;  "but  I  ain't  urgin'  it." 

"Your  apology  noted,"  says  he,  "and  such  an 
impulsive  invitation  I  can  scarcely  resist.  Ah, 
here  is  your  eminent  assistant,  Mr.  Gallagher, 
who  seems  to  await  you  with  news  of  import." 

It's  a  fact.    Swifty  Joe  is  scowlin'  impatient. 

"Well,  anything  on  your  mind  besides  your 
hair,  Swifty?"  says  I. 

* '  Nah ! ' '  says  he  out  of  the  southwest  corner 
of  his  mouth.  "But  there's  sumpin'  on  the  mat 
you  might  give  the  once-over  to  when  you  get 
the  time. ' ' 

"Ah,  ha!"  says  Pinckney.  "A  hint  of  mys- 
tery. Excellent  1" 


102     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

"Since  you're  so  strong  for  that  sort  of 
thing,"  says  I,  "I'll  let  you  in  on  it,  whatever 
it  is." 

"Done!"  says  Pinckney.  "Proceed  to  the 
mat." 

So  we  files  into  the  gym.  I  had  to  take  a 
second  glance  before  I  places  this  huddled-up 
party  with  the  torn  coat  sleeve  and  the  rumpled 
hair.  But  as  I  walked  around  and  stirred  it 
with  my  foot,  a  pair  of  squinty  eyes  are  rolled 
up  at  me. 

"Huh!"  says  I.    "Todd." 

He  moans  out  something  or  other,  and  goes 
through  some  shivery  motions. 

"Well,  well,"  I  goes  on.  "Last  I  heard  of 
you,  you  was  enjoyin'  yourself  fine,  throwin'  a 
scare  into  an  elevator-load  of  women,  with  Mrs. 
Eosenbaum  due  on  the  scene  any  minute.  Did 
she  show  up ! " 

"Ye-e-es,"  groans  Todd. 

"And  you  called  her  an  old  hen  and  a  few 
other  things  like  you  threatened!"  I  asks. 
"What  then?" 

"I — I  got  the  chuck,"  says  Todd. 

"Didn't  look  for  any  medal  of  honor  to  be 
pinned  on  you,  did  you?"  I  goes  on.  "But  that 
ain't  the  only  job  in  the  world,  is  it?  Is  that 
what  ails  you — or  have  you  been  home?" 

He  nods  and  lets  out  some  more  groans. 

"Oh,  you  have?"  says  I.    "And  there  was  a 


AND  THEN,  THERE  WAS  TODD  103 

big  howl,  I'll  bet.  But  I  expect  you  told  that 
domestic  trio  of  yours  where  they  got  off,  eh? 
How  did  that  work  out!" 

Todd  squirms  around  quite  a  lot,  but  finally 
he  gets  out  his  report. 

"They — they  nearly  did  me  up,"  he  says. 

1 1  What ! "  say s  I.    ' '  Three  women  ? ' ' 

"You — you  never  saw  that  sister  of  mine," 
whines  Todd.  "She's  as  strong  as  any  man. 
It  wasn't  so  much  that  she  hurt  as — as " 

Here  he  breaks  off,  snifflin'. 

"Ah,  come,"  says  I.  "Let's  have  it.  What 
was  it  she  did  to  you  ? ' ' 

"Spu-spanked  me,"  sobs  out  Todd,  hidin'  his 
head. 

' '  W-h-a-at ! "  I  gasped.  ' '  You  let  her  spa 

Good  night!  Here,  Pinckney.  Here's  your 
mystery.  This  noble  gent  here  on  the  floor  is 
Mr.  Samson  Todd.  Up  to  this  noon  he  was 
elevator-man  next  door.  He  didn't  like  the  job. 
Too  many  females — old  hens  is  his  favorite 
name  for  'em.  And  he's  been  beefin'  about  his 
women-folks  at  home.  I  tried  to  tell  him  that 
if  he  was  a  reg'lar  guy  he  wouldn't  come 
grouchin'  to  me  about  his  troubles,  but  would 
stand  up  and  feed  it  to  'em.  Well,  it  seems  he 
did.  And  now  look  at  him.  He  goes  and  lets 
'em—  Say,  shall  I  have  Swifty  Joe  sweep 
him  out,  or " 

Pinckney  has  hung  his  crook-necked  walkin'- 


104     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

stick  on  his  left  wrist  and  is  holdin'  up  his  other 
hand. 

''Tut,  tut,  Shorty,"  says  he.  "Charity,  old 
chap.  There  may  be  extenuating  circumstances. 
Who  knows  f  Perhaps  the  gentleman  will  sit  up 
and  join  me  in  a  cigarette." 

"Eh?"  says  Todd,  eyein'  him  suspicious. 

Pinckney  is  offerin'  his  gold  cigarette-case. 
It's  a  minute  or  so,  though,  before  Todd  can  be 
induced  to  hoist  himself  into  a  chair  and  light 
up. 

"Pardon  me  for  asking  so  personal  a  ques- 
tion," says  Pinckney,  "but  you  haven't  always 
been  an  elevator-man,  have  you?" 

' '  Not  me, ' '  says  Todd.  * '  Six  years,  that 's  all. 
And  it  was  six  years  too  many. ' ' 

"There,  Shorty!"  says  Pinckney  triumphant. 
"You  see!  Mr.  Todd  is,  as  I  suspected,  a  per- 
son of  defeated  ambitions ;  one  who  has  felt  the 
bludgeonings  of  fate,  but  whose  head  is  as  yet 
unbowed.  Am  I  right,  Mr.  Todd  ? ' ' 

Todd  was  gawpin'  at  him  puzzled;  but  after 
thinkin'  it  over  he  nods  solemn. 

"And  what,"  Pinckney  goes  on,  "were  some 
of  those  unsatisfied  ambitions,  Mr.  Todd?" 

"You — you  mean "begins  Todd. 

"The  things  you  yearned  to  do  and  could 
not,"  Pinckney  helps  out. 

"I — I  allus  meant  to  take  lessons  on  th'  ac- 
cordion," says  Todd.  "I  can  play  it  some — 


AND  THEN,  THERE  WAS  TODD  105 

part  of  l Annie  Laurie'  and  the  chorus  to  'Good 
Old  Summer-time.'  I  was  learnin'  'Tipperary' 
too,  gettin'  along  fine,  when  that  old  hen  sister 
of  mine  found  the  thing  and  bust  it  up  on 
me." 

"On  you!"  says  Pinckney.  "Ah,  figura- 
tively, I  trust?  But  none  the  less  there  burst 
a  rosy  bubble.  No  more  could  your  fettered 
soul  rise  on  the  wings  of  Orpheus.  Still,  there 
were  other  aspirations,  no  doubt?" 

"Uh-huh,"  says  Todd,  gazin'  dreamy. 

1  'Such  as "  suggests  Pinckney,  lettin'  his 

left  eye  twinkle  my  way. 

1 1 1  should  ha '  been  a  sea  captain, ' '  says  Todd, 
"sailin'  round  and  seein'  the  world;  maybe 
smugglin'  a  bit,  or  mixin'  in  with  pirates  over 
in  them  Molly  Islands. ' ' 

Pinckney  draws  in  a  deep  breath.  It  was  his 
turn  to  stare.  He'd  dug  up  something  he  hadn't 
expected. 

"  Oh,  I  say ! "  says  he.  ' '  That 's  a  whale  of  an 
ambition.  But  what  kept  you  from  being  a  sea 
captain,  Todd?" 

' '  Ah,  I  never  had  no  chanst, ' '  says  Todd.  '  *  I 
been  a  stick-in-th'-mud.  Sick  a  lot,  for  one 
thing.  And  then  I  never  knew  just  how  to  get 
started.  But  I  allus  wanted  to  strike  out  for 
myself,  to  get  away  where  there  was  danger 
and  fightin'  and  things  to  stir  your  blood.  If 
I  could  only  get  there  now,  right  in  the  thick  of 


106     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

things,  I  '11  risk  but  I  'd  take  my  share.  I  'd  show 
'em  that  Samson  Todd  was  a  man  yet!" 

He's  straightened  up,  Todd  has,  and  his 
squinty  eyes  has  an  odd  greenish  flicker  in  'em, 
and  he's  waggin'  his  head  cocky.  I  can't  say 
whether  he's  funny  or  pathetic — a  little  of  both, 
maybe.  As  for  Pinckney,  I  can  tell  he's  bavin' 
the  time  of  his  life. 

4 'Todd,"  says  he,  "I  am  almost  inclined  to 
believe  you.  As  our  friend  McCabe  would 
phrase  it,  you  tell  it  well.  And  yet — ah,  I  must 
quote  for  you  my  favorite  motto :  Adventures, 
Todd,  are  for  the  venturous." 

"  Hey?  "says  Todd. 

"For  cherries,"  says  Pinckney,  "one  climbs  a 
tree.  Never  were  there  more  stirring  times 
than  these.  The  world  at  war — and  you  run- 
ning an  elevator!" 

"Oh!"  says  Todd.  "I  couldn't  get  into  any- 
thing. I  'm  over  forty. ' ' 

"Still,"  says  Pinckney,  "for  one  who  so 
earnestly  craves  that  sort  of  thing  there  should 
be  some  way  open — perhaps  not  in  the  very 
trenches,  but See  here ;  what  were  you  be- 
fore you  became  an  elevator-man  1 ' ' 

"Little  of  everything,"  says  Todd.  "I  used 
to  sell  extras  durin'  the  Spanish-American 
muss.  Later  on  I  peddled  bananas  and  potatoes 
and  such 'truck  from  a  cart.  Then  for  a  while 


AND  THEN,  THERE  WAS  TODD  107 

I  helped  in  a  quick-lunch  joint.  That's  where  I 
got  to  be  a  cook." 

"Really!"  says  Pinckney.  "You  are  a 
cook?" 

' '  No  thin '  fancy, ' '  says  Todd.  ' '  I  can  hash  up 
common  things,  though.  Must  have  had  half  a 
dozen  places,  but  on  one  account  or  another 
I  got " 

"See  here,  Todd,"  breaks  in  Pinckney.  "I 
have  the  very  thing  for  you.  Heard  of  it  only 
this  noon  when  I  was  talking  to  a  friend — a 
naval  officer.  Said  he  was  desperate  for  cooks, 
must  find  twenty  of  'em  right  away — mess  cooks 
for  the  transport  service.  Just  cooking  for  the 
crews,  you  know.  There  you  are.  That's  you. 
I  know  where  he  is  now.  Wait;  I'll  call  him 
up." 

"But — but  say "  begins  Todd,  openin' 

and  shuttin '  his  mouth  gaspy  and  stretchin '  his 
fingers  out  after  Pinckney,  who 's  started  for  the 
'phone. 

"Well?"  demands  Pinckney. 

"Did — did  you  say  them  cooks  was  for  trans- 
ports?" goes  on  Todd.  "Steamers  that  carry 
over  soldiers  and  supplies,  ain't  they,  and — and 
get  sunk  by  submarines?" 

1 '  Yes, ' '  says  Pinckney.  ' '  Precisely  what  you 
want,  isn't  it?  High  adventure.  It's  the  chance 
you  've  been  waiting  for.  Shall  I  call  him  up  ? " 


It  was  fascinatin'  to  watch  Todd's  face. 
First  off,  that  weak  chin  of  his  was  sagged,  his 
eyes  were  popped,  and  his  skin  had  turned  a  dull 
gray.  Sweat  was  startin'  out  on  the  sides  of  his 
nose.  Then,  all  of  a  sudden,  the  muscles  in  the 
mouth  corners  stiffen,  and  up  comes  his  head. 

"Yes,"  says  Todd,  hoarse  and  husky.  "Call 
him." 

Now,  how  you  go  in'  to  tell?  Might  have  been 
easy  enough  for  some  of  us,  makin'  a  move  like 
that.  But  it  must  have  been  different  with 
Todd,  who'd  just  been  driftin'  along,  like  rub- 
bish on  the  tide,  ever  since  he  was  born.  I 
expect  he'd  wanted  to  do  things,  in  a  vague  sort 
of  way.  He'd  wished  and  waited.  And  that 
would  have  been  as  far  as  he'd  gone  if  he  hadn't 
been  picked  up  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck,  as  you 
might  say,  and  chucked  into  this. 

Things  moved  fast  for  Todd  from  then  on, 
though.  Inside  of  half  an  hour  he'd  been 
hustled  in  a  taxi  to  a  recruitin'  office  and  had 
signed  up.  Before  dark  he  was  on  a  dock  some- 
where in  Hoboken,  loaded  down  with  more  clean 
warm  clothes  than  he'd  ever  owned  before,  not 
to  mention  such  trifles  as  new  razors,  fancy 
toilet  soap,  a  couple  of  pounds  of  his  favorite 
smokin'  tobacco,  and  other  little  contributions 
that  Pinckney  and  I  could  collect  in  a  hurry. 

"There,"  says  Pinckney,  as  we  waves  good- 
by  to  Todd — "there  embarks  a  potential  hero." 


AND  THEN,  THERE  WAS  TODD  109 

"I  don't  know  the  brand,"  says  I,  "barrin' 
it's  one  that  makes  good  until  he  meets  a 
spankin'  sister." 

"That  menace,  at  least,"  says  Pinckney,  "he 
will  be  free  from  on  the  high  seas.  As  for  the 
rest — well,  let  us  wish  him  the  best  of  luck  and 
consider  the  incident  closed.  Thank  you, 
Shorty,  for  a  diverting  interlude. ' ' 

That's  Pinckney,  all  over.  Two  minutes  from 
then  he  was  taxin'  his  mighty  intellect  with  the 
proposition  of  whether  he  should  go  home  for 
dinner  or  stop  off  at  the  club. 

I  must  say  I  couldn't  forget  Todd  quite  so 
easy.  Maybe  I  thought  of  him  a  couple  of  times 
durin'  the  next  week,  when  I  noticed  the  West 
Indian  runnin'  the  elevator  next  door.  Then 
the  affair  faded  out.  In  a  month,  if  I'd  heard 
the  name,  about  all  it  would  have  called  up 
would  have  been  something  humorous  about 
somebody  gettin'  spanked. 

Then  here  yesterday  in  breezes  Pinckney,  and 
instead  of  indulgin'  in  any  of  his  usual  piffle  he 
pulls  a  chair  up  to  the  desk  where  I'm  sittin'  at 
ease  with  my  feet  up,  and  proceeds  to  talk 
serious  and  confidential. 

"Shorty,"  says  he,  "I've  just  had  a  talk  with 
my  naval  friend  in  the  transport  service." 

"Y-e-e-es?"  says  I. 

"Well,"  he  goes  on,  "the  U-boats  got  the 
Arapiqua  on  her  return  trip." 


110     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 


"Ara — which?"  says  I. 

* '  Don 't  you  remember  ? ' '  says  he.  * '  The  one 
Todd  shipped  on  as  cook." 

"What?"  says  I.  "Sunk  her?  And  how 
about  Todd?" 

"I'm  coming  to  that,"  says  Pinckney.  "The 
Arapiqua  went  over  loaded  with  mules  and  pro- 
visions. She  arrived  safely,  in  spite  of  a  lively 
brush  that  the  convoys  had  off  the  coast  of 
France.  Coming  back  the  fleet  ran  into  quite 
a  storm.  The  Arapiqua  became  separated  from 
the  rest — strained  a  propeller-shaft.  She  was 
lying  to,  patching  things  up,  when  the  sub- 
marine appeared.  Of  course  she  put  up  a  fight, 
but  a  chance  shot  disabled  the  after  gun,  killing 
or  wounding  nearly  all  of  the  gun  crew.  There 
was  nothing  left  but  to  take  to  the  boats.  And 
when  they  had  rowed  off,  the  sea  still  rather 
rough,  the  Huns  went  aboard  and  planted  a  few 
bombs.  You  know  they  don't  waste  torpedoes 
on  mule  transports.  And  when  they  had  done 
their  usual  pilfering  they  went  back  to  their 
boat  and  watched  for  the  Arapiqua,  abandoned 
and  rolling  helpless  in  the  waves,  to  go  to  the 
bottom. 

"Then  the  unexpected  happened.  They  saw 
something  stirring  under  the  canvas  cover  of 
the  forward  gun.  A  man  had  crawled  out  and 
was  cutting  away  the  cover  lashings.  He  was 
trying  to  swing  the  gun  around  to  bear  on  them. 


AND  THEN,  THERE  WAS  TODD  111 

That  was  enough  for  the  Huns.  Down  they 
tumbled  as  fast  as  they  could  follow  one  another 
below.  But  before  the  U-boat  could  submerge 
the  lone  man  on  the  Arapiqua  had  got  the  gun 
going.  The  first  shot  missed  by  a  hundred 
yards,  so  the  transport  captain  says — he  was 
watching  through  his  glasses.  The  second 
wasn't  quite  so  wide.  And  the  third  was  a  fair 
hit,  just  at  the  base  of  the  periscope.  A 
fourth  shot  struck  well  forward.  There  was 
a  tremendous  explosion.  The  stern  of  the 
submarine  was  flung  up  and  she  sank  like  a 
rock. 

"The  man  on  the  Arapiqua  was  still  firing, 
shot  after  shot,  as  fast  as  he  could  feed  them  in, 
when  the  bombs  began  to  go  off.  One  exploded 
amidships,  another  in  the  stern,  and  the  third 
sent  the  whole  forward  deck  high  in  the  air. 
The  lone  man  and  his  gun  went  with  it — to  king- 
dom come.  But  he'd  done  his  work.  Shorty, 
can  you  guess  who  the  fellow  was1?" 

"You — you  don't  mean,"  says  I,  "it  was — 
Todd?" 

Pinckney  nods. 

' '  Samson  Todd,  hero, ' '  says  he.  ' '  The  trans- 
port captain  recognized  him  through  his  glasses. 
Besides,  he  was  the  only  man  unaccounted  for, 
and,  so  far  as  known,  the  only  one  on  board, 
besides  the  gun  crew,  who  could  load  and  fire 
the  three-pounder.  He  had  begged  so  persist- 


112     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

-ently  to  be  shown  how  that  the  men  had 
humored  him.  It  seems  he  thought  he  might  be 
made  a  gun  captain  on  the  next  trip." 

"But  how  did  he  come  to  be  hidin'  there 
under  the  canvas  ? "  I  asks. 

"Couldn't  we  pass  over  that?"  says  Pinck- 
ney.  "Suppose  he  did  begin  the  fight  badly — 
he  ended  it  nobly  enough.  Not  Ulysses  himself 
could  have  won  to  a  more  glorious  end." 

"That's  right,"  says  I.  "It  was  a  man's 
finish.  Huh!  Todd!  Who'd  have  thought  it 
was  in  him?" 


vn 

SULLY  AT   A   SKIP   STOP 

"SHORTY,'*  says  Sadie  here  the  other  night, 
"I  hope  you  remember  that  day  after  to-morrow 
will  be  the  nineteenth?" 

"No,"  says  I,  "I  can't  remember  that  far 
ahead. 

"But  you  know  what  I  mean,"  says  Sadie. 

"Maybe  I  can  guess,"  says  I.  "You're  pre- 
dictin'  it  will  be  Saturday,  too." 

"And  I  suppose  that's  all  it  is  to  you?"  says 
she,  sighin'. 

"  Wrong  again, "  says  I.  "See!"  And  I  pro- 
duces a  little  white  box  from  my  pocket  and 
passes  it  over. 

" Oh ! "  says  she,  openin 'it.  "A  wrist  watch ! 
The  very  thing  I'd  been  thinking  of  for  him. 
I'm  sure  he  will  be  pleased  with  that." 

"He  ought  to,"  says  I.  "Illuminated  face, 
gun  metal  guard  and  genuine  pig-skin  strap, 
just  like  the  regular  doughboys  wear.  And  if 
he  don't  use  it  in  football  scrimmages  it  may 
last  him  a  month. ' ' 

"I  suppose  Sully  is  rather  young  to  be  given  a 
wrist  watch, ' '  hedges  Sadie. 

118 


114     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

"He  ain't  so  young  as  lie  was,"  says  I. 
"He '11  be  ten  Saturday." 

"Just  think,  Shorty!  Ten  years  old — 
Sully!"  And  Sadie  stares  into  the  fireplace. 

"That's  what's  bound  to  happen  to  young- 
sters, if  they're  lucky,"  says  I. 

"I  know,"  says  she,  "and  we " 

"Ah,  cheer  up,  old  girl,"  says  I.  "We  ain't 
quite  in  the  antique  class  yet.  Several  skip 
stops  before  we  get  to  forty.  Let 's  forget  that 
and  stick  to  this  big  event  of  Sully 's.  Goin'  to 
celebrate  for  him  in  some  way,  I  expect?" 

Sadie  admits  that  she's  planned  a  little  party. 

"That's  the  stuff!"  says  I.  "All  the  kids  in 
the  neighborhood,  I  expect?  That  is,  all  but  the 
Honorable  Peggy.  Too  bad  she  can't  be  in  on 
it,  too.  His  first  girl,  at  that. " 

"Yes,"  says  Sadie,  "I'm  afraid  he  won't 
think  it  much  of  a  party  without  Peggy.  I  don 't 
see,  though,  just  what  I  can  do." 

I  didn't,  either.  For  who  were  we  to  break  in 
where  the  Purdy-Pells  and  the  Boomer-Days 
was  shut  out?  You  see,  we'd  acquired  some 
mighty  swell  neighbors  durin'  the  past  six  or 
eight  months.  Oh  my,  yes !  The  ones  who  leased 
the  Knight  place.  And  we  'd  always  thought  the 
De  Forest  Knights  was  top  notchers,  in  their 
way;  owned  Mexican  gold  mines,  sported  two 
men  in  livery  on  the  limousine,  had  been  oper- 
ated on  by  the  Mayo  brothers — all  that  sort  of 


SULLY  AT  A  SKIP  STOP          115 

thing.  Their  four  acres  of  shore  frontage  was 
next  above  my  little  strip  of  sea  wall,  you  know. 

But  a  couple  of  years  ago,  when  something 
happened  to  shut  off  the  dividends  from  the 
gold  mines,  the  De  Forest  Knights  took  a  sud- 
den slump.  Kind  of  tough  luck,  too,  for  they 
always  nodded  pleasant  enough  as  they  passed, 
and  once  or  twice  De  Forest  gave  me  a  lift  up 
from  the  station.  All  of  a  sudden,  though,  they 
did  a  fadeaway.  Just  disappeared.  I  heard 
how  they  was  livin'  in  one  side  of  a  two-fam'ly 
house  in  Philadelphia.  And  for  months  there 
was  a  big  "For  Sale  or  Rent"  sign  up  on  the 
fancy  iron  gates. 

Then  came  the  Eedingtons.  For  a  spell  there 
was  quite  a  mystery  about  this  tall,  spruce  party 
with  the  grayish  mustache  who  walked  with  a 
limp  in  his  left  leg.  Some  thought  he  was  an 
English  plute  who'd  come  over  here  to  dodge 
usin'  a  meat  and  bread  card.  But  in  a  little 
place  like  Rockhurst-on-the-Sound  things  get 
around.  It  finally  comes  out  that  he 's  Sir  Hart- 
ley Redington,  who's  been  sent  over  on  some 
important  government  job — shipping,  most 
likely,  or  army  supplies.  That's  as  far  as  we 
got. 

For  Sir  Hartley  is  a  poor  mixer.  He  could 
come  nearer  walkin'  right  over  you  without 
seein'  you  than  anyone  I'd  ever  just  missed 
meetin'  before.  Nothing  folksy  about  Sir  Hart- 


116     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

ley.  Not  even  a  mornin'  nod  as  he  saw  me 
comin'  out  of  my  gates,  no  more'n  a  hundred 
feet  from  his.  Course,  I  didn't  chew  my  nails 
or  grind  my  teeth  over  a  little  thing  like  that. 
'Specially  after  I  heard  how  Commodore  Dick 
Woods  had  been  stung  when  he  hailed  Sir  Hart- 
ley jovial  on  the  station  platform  one  mornin' 
and  suggested  that  he  'd  like  to  put  up  his  name 
for  the  Yacht  Club. 

"Beg  pardon,"  says  Sir  Hartley,  givin'  him 
the  cold  eye,  "but  I  don't  care  to  join  any  club, 
sir." 

"Oh,  well,"  as  I  suggests  to  the  Commodore, 
"maybe  we  can  worry  along  without  his  royal 
sirness." 

But  Mrs.  Boomer-Day  got  the  hardest  bump 
of  all.  Course,  she  'd  rushed  right  over  and  left 
cards  shortly  after  the  movin'  vans  had  un- 
loaded, and  then  she  proceeds  to  organize  what 
she  calls  a  garden  party,  even  havin'  a  white 
throne-effect  built  where  Sir  Hartley  and  Lady 
Eedington  could  have  the  neighbors  presented 
to  'em.  And  I  understand  she  and  Mrs.  Purdy- 
Pell  almost  went  to  the  mat  over  who  should 
and  who  shouldn't  be  invited.  But  when  the  big 
day  came  the  Redingtons  took  no  more  notice 
of  it  than  as  if  their  engraved  card  had  been 
an  auction  hand-bill  tossed  on  the  front  porch. 
They  didn't  come  and  they  sent  no  word. 

From  this  and  other  hints  folks  got  the  idea 


SULLY  AT  A  SKIP  STOP          117 

that  the  Kedingtons  wanted  to  be  left  alone. 
Someone  discovered  that  the  black  band  Sir 
Hartley  wore  on  his  left  sleeve  was  for  two 
younger  brothers  that  had  been  lost  at  Ypres, 
so  the  knockers  gradually  let  up.  But  nobody 
was  left  with  nerve  enough  to  breeze  through 
the  Eedington  gates  again,  not  even  to  sell 
tickets  for  Eed  Cross  benefits.  And  with  all  the 
social  climbers  we  got  out  here  you  can  imagine 
how  hard  that  must  have  been  on  some  of  'em. 

That's  what  gave  Sadie  such  a  gaspin'  spell 
when  she  discovers  how  thick  little  Sully  is  get- 
tin'  with  little  Miss  Kedington.  You  know 
there 's  a  bathing  beach  on  the  Knight  place  and 
while  our  old  neighbors  owned  it  Sully  used  to 
make  himself  as  much  at  home  there  as  if  it  was 
his  own  back  yard.  Him  and  the  Knight  young- 
ster had  a  spring  board  rigged  up  and  a  float 
anchored  off,  and  what  them  two  kids  didn't 
learn  about  swimmin'  and  divin'  wasn't  worth 
knowin'.  'Specially  Sully.  Why,  he  was  doin' 
the  Australian  crawl  before  he  was  eight  and 
the  way  he  could  sport  around  in  the  water 
would  make  a  porpoise  look  like  an  amateur. 

He  was  some  disgusted  boy,  too,  when  he 
finds  that  the  only  young  person  our  new  neigh- 
bors has  in  the  family  is  a  girl.  But  that  don't 
last  long.  After  he's  seen  her  do  one  dive  from 
the  float  he  gets  into  his  bathing  suit,  jumps  off 
the  sea  wall  and  swims  right  over  to  join  in  the 


118     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

fun.  I  understand  the  governess  in  charge  tried 
to  drive  him  home,  but  the  young  miss  wouldn't 
stand  for  it.  Later  on  we  got  his  report  on  the 
young  lady. 

'  *  Say,  pop, ' '  he  confides  to  me  one  day, ' '  she 's 
a  reg  'lar  person,  that  girl  next  door.  Y  'otta  see 
her  do  a  back-flop.  An'  I'm  showin'  her  the 
barrel-roll  an'  a  lot  of  stunts." 

' '  What 's  the  young  lady 's  name  ? ' '  says  I. 

"Ah,  she  ain't  no  young  lady,"  says  Sully. 
"Only  a  couple  months  older 'n  me.  She's  just 
Peggy.  Know  what  that  old  prune  face  gov- 
erness calls  her,  though?  The  Hon'rable  Mar- 
jorie!  I  heard  her  tell  the  chauffeur  that  'the 
Hon'rable  Marjorie  wasn't  through  with  her 
bawth.'  Wouldn't  that  crust  you?  Like  she 
was  a  congressman  or  sump'n.  Where  do  you 
expect  she  gets  that  stuff?" 

"It's  by  me,  Sully,"  says  I.  "I  ain't  mixed 
much  with  the  nobility  myself. ' ' 

"Gee!"  says  Sully,  "there  ain't  anything 
stuck  up  about  Peggy,  take  it  from  me.  Course, 
she  does  pull  a  funny  line  of  talk;  sayin'  how 
she  feels  top-hole,  and  tellin'  me  I  needn't 
swank  around  or  carry  so  much  side  about  my 
swimmin'.  Stuff  like  that.  And  she  laughs  at 
things  I  say,  too.  Think  of  that!  But  she's 
right  there  when  it  comes  to  playin'  games. 
'Most  as  good  as  Bob  Knight  was. ' ' 

I  didn't  want  to  tell  Sully  so,  but  I  was  lookin' 


SULLY  AT  A  SKIP  STOP          119 

for  him  to  come  home  one  of  these  days  with 
his  mouth  down,  after  an  interview  with  Sir 
Hartley  or  Lady  Redington.  Nothing  like  that 
happened,  though.  Either  they  left  such  mat- 
ters to  the  governess  to  settle,  or  else  they 
didn't  want  the  youngster  to  be  as  lonesome  as 
they  were.  Besides,  the  Honorable  Peggy 
looked  like  she  could  put  up  quite  an  argument 
for  herself,  in  case  it  was  needed. 

She 's  a  slim,  graceful  young  party,  with  black 
hair  and  black  eyes,  and  as  well  tanned  as  an 
old  boot.  Mostly  she  wore  a  one-piece  bathin' 
suit  and  when  it  wasn't  that  she  romped  around 
in  khaki  knickers.  And  with  that  box  cut  on 
her  hair  you  could  hardly  tell  whether  she  was 
a  boy  or  a  girl.  If  Sully  could  show  her  how  to 
bat  up  flies  with  a  baseball,  she  could  give  him 
points  on  cricket  and  lawn  bowlin',  and  when  it 
came  to  handlin'  a  tennis  racket  I  judge  that 
Sully  was  a  poor  second. 

Anyway,  they  put  in  a  lively  summer,  and 
that  governess  must  have  earned  her  pay  fol- 
io win'  'em  round.  It  suited  Sadie  all  right  be- 
cause Sully  wasn't  all  the  time  gettin'  mixed 
up  in  scraps  and  mischief  with  the  village  boys. 
I  expect  she  was  kind  of  tickled,  too,  at 
the  way  Sully  had  crashed  in  with  the  aristoc- 
racy. 

4 '  I  believe  he 's  getting  quite  fond  of  the  Hon- 
orable Peggy,"  she  remarks  once. 


120   SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

11  Ain't  you  beginnin'  kind  of  early  to  work  up 
a  romance  for  the  youngster!"  I  asks. 

"How  absurd,  Shorty!"  says  she.  "It  is 
only  that  I  am  glad  he's  finding  out  that  girls 
aren't  quite  such  despisable  creatures  as  he 
used  to  think  they  were.  You  know,  he  has  been 
rather " 

"I  know,"  says  I.  "He's  all  boy,  Sully; 
maybe  a  little  rough  and  noisy,  but  not  such  a 
poor  specimen  at  that,  eh?" 

Which  gets  a  fond  smile  out  of  Sadie.  "I  am 
sure  that  neither  of  us  overlooks  any  of  his  good 
points,"  says  she,  "but  it's  hardly  the  best 
taste  for  us  to  mention  them." 

I  agree  to  that.  Still,  maybe  I  can  sort  of 
throw  off  casual  and  modest  that  if  there's  any 
ten-year-old  in  Eockhurst  or  the  adjoinin'  sub- 
urbs that  has  got  Sully  beat  we'd  like  to  see 
him.  Course,  maybe  some  would  object  to  the 
curl  in  his  reddish-brown  hair,  or  the  freckles, 
or  point  out  that  his  nose  was  a  bit  snubbed. 
But  I  notice  that  when  he  springs  that  cherub 
smile  of  his  and  lets  'em  have  the  full  effect  of 
them  Killarney  blue  eyes — well,  you  should  hear 
some  of  the  women  rave.  Them's  his  company 
manners.  Outside  of  that  I'll  admit  he's  a 
young  tarrier. 

They  made  a  great  team,  him  and  the  Hon- 
orable Peggy.  She 's  an  inch  or  so  taller  maybe, 
but  Sully  is  stockier  built,  and  from  the  very 


SULLY  AT  A  SKIP  STOP          121 

start  they  seemed  to  get  along  well  together. 
It's  the  first  summer  for  two  or  three  years  that 
Sully  ain't  showed  up  home  about  every  so  often 
with  scratches  on  his  face  or  a  lump  under  one 
eye.  Also  it's  the  first  vacation  when  I  ain't 
had  to  apologize  to  some  fond  mamma  for  the 
rough  way  he's  used  her  little  pet.  About  all 
the  notice  he  'd  ever  taken  of  girls  before  was  in 
thinkin'  up  ingenious  ways  of  tormentin'  'em — 
pullin'  out  their  hair  ribbons,  chasin'  'em  with 
dead  snakes,  and  so  on. 

Whether  he  tried  any  of  them  tactics  on 
Peggy  or  not  we  couldn't  tell,  for  they  did  all 
their  playin'  over  on  her  grounds,  except  when 
they'd  jog  down  to  town  in  the  pony  cart,  after 
sodas  and  candy.  If  he  did  put  over  any  rough 
stuff  I  expect  he  got  back  as  good  as  he  sent. 
All  through  July  and  August  he  was  there  about 
every  day.  Sometimes  he'd  stay  for  tea  and 
drift  home  about  five-thirty  with  his  face 
smeared  with  jam  and  no  appetite  for  dinner. 

"Whaddye  know?"  he  announces  once. 
"They  don't  eat  dinner  until  after  eight  and 
Peggy  has  to  go  to  bed  at  half-past  seven. 
Ain't  that  fierce?" 

''It's  quite  English,"  says  Sadie.  "I  think 
you  ought  to  do  that,  too." 

"Aw  gee!  Have  a  heart!"  says  Sully. 
"Nine's  bad  enough." 

Even  after  school  opens  and  the  football 


122   SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

season  begins  Snlly  still  finds  time  to  see  more 
or  less  of  Peggy,  and  when  he  don't  get  over 
she  comes  to  the  hedge  and  whistles  for  him.  I 
notice  he's  generally  ready  to  drop  things  and 
go,  too. 

So  it  does  seem  kind  of  tough  that  she  can't 
be  in  on  his  birthday  party.  I  was  expectin' 
him  to  pnt  up  a  howl  about  it,  but  when  we're 
goin'  over  the  names  all  the  suggestions  he  has 
to  make  is  about  a  few  of  his  football  bunch  that 
he  wants  invited. 

" Don't  forget  Plug  Connors  and  Joe  Sarello 
and  Mutt  Marsuvian,"  he  puts  in. 

Sadie  glances  at  me  hopeless.  "Is — is  it 
necessary  to  include  them!"  she  asks. 

"You  know  this  ain't  exactly  a  convention  of 
Allies  we're  arrangin'  for,"  I  suggests. 

"Ah,  they'd  be  sore  if  they  didn't  get  asked," 
says  Sully.  "Might  not  let  me  be  quarterback 
any  more. ' ' 

"Oh,  very  well,"  says  I.  "So  long  as  we 
don't  have  to  have  any  Serbs  or  Greeks  or 
Polackers.  We  don't  want  to  give  Master 
Percey  Boomer-Day  and  the  others  too  hard  a 
jolt." 

"Ah,  say!"  protests  Sully.  "Have  we  gotta 
have  Sissy  Day  and  all  them  mollycoddles?" 

Sadie  insists  that  we  have,  so  the  debate  ends 
fifty-fifty,  in  a  compromise.  But  never  a  word 
said  about  the  Honorable  Peggy. 


SULLY  AT  A  SKIP  STOP          123 

When  I  comes  home  Friday  night  though  I 
notice  that  Sadie  has  her  chin  in  the  air  and  is 
smilin'  sort  of  triumphant. 

"You  can't  guess  what  I've  done,  Shorty," 
says  she. 

"  Buffaloed  the  grocer  into  lettin'  you  have 
some  extra  sugar  ? ' '  says  I. 

She  shakes  her  head.  "I've  been  over  and 
called  on  Lady  Redington, ' '  says  she. 

"The  nerve  of  you!"  says  I.  "Did  they  sic 
the  dog  on  you,  or  what  f ' ' 

"She  was  very  nice,"  says  Sadie.  "She  is 
going  to  let  the  Honorable  Peggy  come  to  the 
party.  Perhaps  she  '11  drop  in  herself  for  a  little 
while.  And  I  left  an  invitation  for  Sir  Hartley, 
too." 

' '  Hal-lup ! ' '  says  I.  ' '  Why  not  cable  for  King 
George?" 

"Of  course,"  adds  Sadie,  "I've  no  idea  Sir 
Hartley  will  accept,  but  I  thought  I  might  as 
well  ask  him.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Purdy-Pell  will  be 
here,  you  know,  and  the  Boomer-Days ;  and  even 
if  neither  of  the  Eedingtons  appear,  I  think  it's 
nice  of  her  to  let  the  little  girl  come.  I'm  not 
going  to  tell  Sully.  We'll  surprise  him  with 
her." 

"He'll  be  tickled,  all  right,"  says  I. 

Well,  the  affair  started  the  way  kid  parties 
generally  do,  with  a  few  of  the  early  comers 
sittin'  around  gigglin';  boys  on  one  side,  girls 


124  SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

on  the  other,  and  nobody  able  to  get  'em  to- 
gether. Then  Sully  gets  his  eyes  on  the  Irish- 
Italian- Armenian  football  squad,  who  have  been 
hangin'  around  outside  bashful  for  half  an  hour. 
He  lets  loose  a  yell  and  rushes  out  to  tow  'em 
in.  And  of  course  they  starts  rough  housin'  in 
the  front  hall  until  Sadie  marches  'em  in  where 
the  girls  are  and  they  quiet  down  like  they'd 
been  put  under  arrest. 

Accordin'  to  Sadie's  program  there  was  to 
be  dancin'  first,  so  I  feeds  a  one-step  into  the 
music  machine  and  tells  'em  to  go  to  it.  Which 
Master  Percey  and  a  few  of  the  other  nice  little 
boys  does  prompt.  Not  Sully  though.  He  can 
dance  as  well  as  any  of  'em,  and  usually  does; 
but  now  he  sits  between  Mutt  Marsuvian  and 
Joe  Sarello,  entertainin'  'em  with  sarcastic 
remarks. 

"Why,  Sully!"  says  Sadie.  "Can't  you  find 
a  little  partner!" 

"Nah!"  says  Sully.  "I  ain't  gonna 
dance. ' ' 

About  then  there 's  a  stir  at  the  front  door  and 
in  comes  some  fresh  arrivals.  I  took  one  look 
and  nearly  does  a  duck  behind  the  music  box. 
For  here's  Sir  Hartley,  all  dolled  up  in  striped 
pants,  gray  spats  and  a  black  frock  coat,  with 
a  splash  of  colored  ribbon  pinned  across  the 
front — war  decorations,  I  judge.  Behind  him 
is  Lady  Eedington,  costumed  simple  in  white 


SULLY  AT  A  SKIP  STOP          125 

and  black,  and  leadin'  by  the  hand  the  Hon- 
orable Peggy. 

Say,  I  thought  for  a  minute  there  that  Mrs. 
Boomer-Day  was  goin'  to  throw  a  cat-fit,  but 
she  comes  out  of  it  beamin'  and  almost  parts  a 
corset  lacin'  when  she's  presented.  I  might 
have  had  a  lot  of  fun  folio  win'  her  motions  if 
I  hadn't  got  a  glimpse  of  Sully.  He  has  his 
toes  turned  in  and  his  head  hung  down,  but  his 
eyes  are  rolled  up  so  that  he  can  get  a  good 
view  of  Peggy,  and  he's  starin'  for  all  he's 
worth. 

You  could  hardly  blame  him,  for  it's  some 
change  that  has  come  over  the  Honorable 
Peggy.  Maybe  it's  because  we'd  always  seen 
her  in  riding  togs  or  knockabout  costumes. 
And  there  ain't  anything  elaborate  about  what 
she's  got  on  now,  only  she  looks  so  much  more 
dainty  and  girlish  than  I'd  imagine  she  could. 

"What  a  little  beauty!"  I  hears  Mrs.  Purdy- 
Pell  gasp  admiring. 

In  the  meantime  I  was  hearin'  a  little  of  this 
pretty  speech  Lady  Eedington  was  gettin'  off 
to  Sadie  about  * '  her  adorable  little  son  who  has 
been  such  a  charming,  manly  playfellow  for 
dear  Marjorie." 

Then  she  turns  to  Peggy  and  remarks : f  l  Now, 
dearie,  run  and  dance  with  the  others." 

Peggy  seems  willin'  enough.  She  stands 
there  lookin'  sweet  and  smilin',  waitin'  for  some 


126     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

of  the  boys  to  ask  her.  But  they  didn't  seem  to 
dare.  Even  Master  Percey  Boomer-Day  don't 
quite  have  the  nerve.  So  she's  left  staudin' 
alone  at  one  side.  Most  youngsters  would  have 
flushed  up,  or  sidled  pouty  into  a  corner.  But 
nothing  like  that  from  the  Honorable  Peggy. 
She  spots  Sully  over  at  the  far  end  of  the  room 
and  makes  straight  for  him. 

"Please,  Sully,"  says  she,  haltin'  in  front  of 
the  mixed  quartette,  ''can't  we  have  a  dance?" 

And  there  it  was,  up  to  Sully.  Here  on  either 
side  was  his  rough-neck  friends,  who  had  the 
say  as  to  who  played  quarterback  and  who 
didn't,  and  who  rated  kids  that  danced  with 
girls  in  about  the  same  class  as  the  ones  who 
took  piano  lessons  or  collected  stamps.  They 
was  snickerin',  too.  And  then  again  there  was 
Peggy,  her  sparklin'  black  eyes  watchin'  him 
expectant  and  her  slim,  graceful  figure  swayin' 
to  the  music. 

"Ah,  why  not?"  says  Sully,  gettin'  up. 

And  knowin'  something  about  just  what  that 
decision  meant  to  Sully  I  decides  it 's  a  little  the 
nerviest  play  I'd  ever  seen  him  make.  Off  they 
go,  swingin'  and  turnin'  in  perfect  time,  like  it 
was  something  they'd  practiced  together  for 
months.  The  three  in  the  corner  stops  snick- 
erin' and  watches  with  their  mouths  open. 

"Chee!"  I  hears  young  Sarello  remark, 
"  they  're  some  swell  steppers,  ain't  they?" 


SULLY  AT  A  SKIP  STOP          127 

He  wasn't  the  only  one  that  was  takin'  notice 
of  this  particular  couple,  either.  I  see  Lady 
Redington  watchin'  'em  approvin'.  Even  Sir 
Hartley  gives  'em  a  smile  as  they  float  past. 
I  was  gettin'  a  bit  chesty  myself  over  the  way 
Sully  was  showin'  up  as  a  parlor  performer 
when  the  piece  stops  sudden.  Master  Percey 
and  his  friends  does  the  usual  polite  stunt  of  ap- 
plaudin'  enthusiastic  for  an  encore.  But  it 
looks  like  Sully  had  used  up  his  entire  stock  of 
good  behavior,  for  he  drops  Peggy  in  the  middle 
of  the  floor  and  comes  sidlin'  back  sheepish  to 
his  bunch. 

"Hey,  Sully,"  demands  Plug  Connors, 
"who's  yer  goil?" 

"Aw,  shut  up!"  says  Sully. 

"Wotcher  quittin'  for?"  asks  Mutt.  "Yon 
was  doin'  fine." 

"Huh!"  says  Sully.  "Ditch  the  kiddin'  or 
I'll  hand  you  one.  Come  on  fellers,  let's  get  the 
ball  and  go  through  some  signal  work.  Eh  I" 

I  didn't  know  whether  to  interfere  or  not,  so 
I  lets  'em  slip  out  into  the  hall.  In  a  minute  or 
two  they  was  at  it.  Meanwhile,  the  Honorable 
Peggy  has  tossed  her  head  independent  and 
drifted  out  by  the  door.  I'd  sort  of  followed 
along  in  case  I  should  be  needed  to  save  any  of 
the  furniture  from  bein'  wrecked  so  I  was  on 
hand  when  the  thing  happened. 

Peggy  had  been  watchin'  these  fake  rushes 


128   SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

they  was  makin'  for  two  or  three  minutes.  You 
could  tell  she  was  gettin'  kind  of  interested  by 
the  way  she  got  up  on  her  toes  and  held  her 
fingers  gripped,  but  I  didn't  look  for  her  to  butt 
in.  First  thing  I  know  though,  she  jumps  out  as 
the  ball  is  snapped  back  to  Sully  and  calls  to 
him: 

' '  Here,  Sully !    To  me,  now ! ' ' 

There's  an  answerin'  twinkle  in  Sully 's  eyes 
and  he  makes  a  neat  pass  over  the  heads  of  his 
squad.  Peggy  catches  the  ball  fair,  balances  a 
second  on  her  toes,  and  then  sings  out  defiant : 

"Catch  me  if  you  can,"  and  is  off  like  a 
whippet  after  a  rat. 

They  don't  need  any  urgin',  that  collection  of 
young  hicks.  No  girl  was  goin'  to  get  the  best 
of  them  at  their  own  game.  With  a  chorus  of 
howls  they  follows.  In  through  the  livin'-room, 
where  the  dance  is  still  going  on,  they  dashes, 
spillin'  one  couple  complete  and  shovin'  others 
against  the  wall. 

And  then  the  Honorable  Peggy  gives  as  fine 
an  exhibition  of  shifty  footwork  as  you  seldom 
see.  She  Sucks  and  dodges,  first  this  way  and 
then  that,  shakes  off  the  tackles  and  gets  clear 
with  a  ripply  little  laugh.  And  it's  only  when 
Plug  Connors  organizes  the  interference  by  get- 
tin'  his  crowd  spread  out  fan-shaped  that  they 
got  her  cornered.  Even  at  that  she  makes  a 
dashin'  try  to  break  through.  I  ain't  sure  but 


SULLY  AT  A  SKIP  STOP          129 

she'd  made  it  too,  only  Master  Boomer-Day,  in 
his  panicky  attempt  not  to  get  mixed  up  in  the 
affair,  has  to  stumble  right  in  her  way.  That's 
how  it  was  he  goes  to  the  bottom  of  the  heap 
when  Mutt  and  Plug  executes  their  flyin'  jump 
that  ended  Peggy's  forty-yard  dash  around  the 
end. 

Course,  by  then  some  of  the  ladies  were 
squealin'  excited  and  we  had  to  put  the  ban  on 
football  practice.  Master  Percey  had  nearly 
lost  his  nice  white  collar  and  most  of  his  wind 
by  the  time  he  could  be  fished  out,  but  the  Hon- 
orable Peggy  scrambles  to  her  feet  hardly 
mussed  at  all. 

''Well,  you  got  me,"  she  admits,  springin' 
that  laugh  of  hers. 

"If  it  had  been  on  a  field  though,"  says  Plug 
Connors,  "you'd  made  a  touch  down,  sure. 
Some  girl!" 

I  was  wonderin'  whether  the  Kedingtons  was 
gapin'  for  breath  or  sufferin'  from  shock,  but  I 
finds  them  lookin'  on  kind  of  amused,  as  if  they 
was  used  to  that  sort  of  thing  from  Peggy. 

It  was  a  wise  move  of  Sadie's  to  spring  the 
ice  cream  and  cake  just  about  then.  It  quieted 
things  down  a  lot,  and  I  noticed  that  Sully 
didn't  need  any  promptin'  as  to  who  he  ought 
to  take  into  the  dinin'-room  with  him.  He  grabs 
Peggy  by  the  hand  and  tells  her  to  "get  in  on 
the  eats. ' '  There  was  more  dancin '  afterwards, 


and  always  in  the  middle  of  it  you'd  see  Sully 
and  Peggy.  I  didn't  hear  him  apologizin'  again 
to  the  football  squad  for  it,  either. 

It  wasn't  until  the  affair  is  all  over  and  every- 
one had  gone  home  though,  that  we  gets  a  true 
slant  on  this  buddin'  romance.  Sadie  brings  it 
out  by  sayin'  how  Lady  Redington  tells  her 
they're  leavin'  the  States  for  good  next  week 
and  are  goin'  back  to  England. 

"Isn't  that  too  bad,  Sully?"  she  asks. 

' '  Huh ! ' '  says  Sully.    ' « I  knew. ' ' 

"But  you'll  miss  Peggy,  won't  you?"  she 
insists. 

' '  Nah ! ' '  says  Sully  careless. 

"Why,  Sully!"  protests  Sadie. 

"I  guess  you  don't  know  what  a  lot  that  girl 
cost  me  this  summer,"  says  Sully.  "Always 
takin'  a  fifteen-cent  plate  of  ice  cream  instead  of 
a  cone.  Gee !  Besides,  if  the  fellers  think  you 
gotta  girl  they'll  kid  you  to  death.  I'm  glad 
she's  goin'."  And  Sully  walks  off  lookin' 
bored. 

"The  little  wretch!"  gasps  Sadie. 

"All  boy,"  says  I.  "And  I  expect  the  inter- 
national alliance  stuff  is  called  off ;  eh,  Sadie  ? ' ' 

"Perhaps,"  says  she,  "yet  who  knows?" 
And  she  goes  on  starin'  dreamy  into  the  fire- 
place. 

Ain't  that  the  female  of  it,  though? 


vin 

A   SLANT   AT  THE    COMERS 

I'D  just  finished  a  half -hour  session  with  the 
Honorable  Thaddeus  Cor  son,  durin'  which  I  was 
supposed  to  be  tellin'  him  what  was  the  best 
kind  of  exercises  to  take  for  a  Wall  Street  liver 
and  a  Union  League  digestion.  Anyway,  that 
was  what  I  was  bein'  paid  for. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  hadn't  been  tellin'  the 
Honorable  Thaddeus  much  of  anything.  He'd 
been  tellin'  me.  Oh,  yes ;  I'd  been  favored  with 
a  full  account  of  his  case,  from  the  way  his 
tongue  looked  in  the  mornin',  to  that  heavy 
feelin'  he  had  after  dinner. 

Surprisin'  what  a  lot  of  these  old  plutes  are 
that  way.  They've  made  good  at  something  or 
other, — jugglin'  suburban  and  country  trolley 
properties  was  Corson's  specialty, — and  be- 
cause they've  broken  into  the  seven-figure  class 
they  hand  themselves  the  pleasin'  fiction  that 
they're  wise  in  the  head  on  any  subject  that 
comes  up. 

As  for  me,  I  kids  him  along  and  don't  disturb 
his  happy  dreams.  I  was  willin'  to  admit  that 
he  did  know  the  trolley  game  fairly  well.  Must 

131 


132     SHOETY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

have,  to  keep  on  buckin'  the  big  syndicates  and 
not  get  squeezed  out.  Short  lines  was  his  fea- 
ture; independents,  small-town  stuff.  He  was 
fond  of  tellin'  how  he  got  hold  of  his  first  con- 
trollin'  interest — by  swappin'  a  mortgage  on  a 
run-down  gas  plant  for  five  miles  of  wabbly 
track,  half  a  dozen  punk  cars  and  a  twenty- 
year  franchise.  '  Now  he  owned  'em  all  over  the 
lot — up  in  New  England,  down  in  Jersey,  and  as 
far  west  as  Iowa. 

You'd  never  guess  it,  to  look  at  him,  either. 
Kind  of  a  simple-looking  leather-faced  old 
Rube.  And  in  that  dusty  black  Stetson,  the 
slate-gray  frock-coat  and  the  striped  trousers, 
you  'd  probably  have  sized  him  up  for  some  vil- 
lage banker  or  Cayuga  County  senator.  He  had 
served  a  couple  of  terms  in  the  Assembly  from 
an  up-State  district,  hence  the  Honorable. 

He'd  been  comin'  to  the  Physical  Culture 
Studio,  on  and  off,  for  a  couple  of  years,  mostly 
durin'  the  winter,  when  he  missed  gettin'  out 
and  showin'  his  gardeners  how  to  trim  hedges 
and  plant  trees.  So  I'd  heard  a  good  deal,  first 
hand,  about  how  much  he  knew.  Maybe  that's 
why  I  turns  him  over  to  Swifty  Joe  so  prompt, 
strolls  out  into  the  front  office,  and  shuts  the 
door  behind  me. 

I  finds  someone  waitin':  a  tall,  loose  built 
young  gent,  wearin'  thick  eye-glasses.  Quite 
a  spiffy  dressed  party  he  is,  with  his  fawn- 


A  SLANT  AT  THE  COMERS        133 

colored  gaiters  and  his  yellow  gloves,  and  lie's 
leanin'  jaunty  on  a  crook-handled  walkin '-stick, 
gazin'  out  one  of  the  front  windows. 

"Ah!"  says  he,  swingin'  round.  "Professor 
McCabe?" 

"No  other, "says  I. 

"I  suppose,  then,"  says  he,  "that  father  is 
about  through  in  there?"  And  he  nods  to- 
wards the  gym. 

"Eh?"  says  I.  "Sure  you  got  the  right 
shop?  I  haven't  seen  anybody  round  here  that 
I'd  guess  you'd  call  father." 

1 1 1  think  you  have, ' '  he  goes  on.  '  *  Thaddeus 
Corson,  for  instance.  I'm  Thad  Corson,  Jr." 

* '  One  on  me, ' '  says  I.  ' '  You  must  take  more 
after  your  mother  than  after  the  old  man." 

"I  suppose  I  do,"  says  he,  "in  more  ways 
than  one.  It  is  a  favorite  topic  of  father's." 
And  he  shrugs  his  shoulders.  "I  merely 
stepped  in,"  goes  on  Thad,  "because  I  missed 
finding  father  at  the  office.  Thought  I'd  pick 
him  up  on  the  way  home. ' ' 

"You're  just  in  time,"  says  I.  "He'll  be  out 
in  a  couple  of  minutes. ' ' 

And,  while  he's  consumin'  a  cigarette  and 
gazin'  out  on  to  Forty-second  Street,  I  couldn't 
help  checkin'  him  up  with  Thaddeus,  Sr.  What 
a  difference  there  is,  sometimes.  Now,  here's 
this  young  sport  with  his  long,  pale  face,  full 
eyes,  his  narrow  stooped  shoulders  and  his  easy 


134     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

dra  win '-room  manners.  "Why,  he's  about  as 
much  like  his  old  man  as  a  spray  of  lilies-of-the- 
valley  is  like  a  sunflower. 

The  minute  his  father  steps  into  the  front 
office  and  sees  him,  he  lets  out  a  snort. 

' '  Huh ! ' '  says  he.    * '  So  you  're  back,  eh  ? " 

"Yes,  sir,"  says  young  Thad.  " I— I'll  tell 
you  about  it  after  we  get  home." 

' '  Oh,  let 's  have  it, ' '  says  Corson.  ' '  Come  on ! 
Out  with  it!" 

"But,  Dad!"  protests  Thaddeus,  Jr.,  glancin' 
at  me.  "Couldn't  we  save  this  until  after 
dinner?" 

Another  snort  from  Corson. 

"Bah!"  says  he.  "McCabe  won't  mind. 
And  I'm  curious  to  know  just  how  badly  you've 
fallen  down  this  trip." 

The  youngster  hunches  his  shoulders. 

"I  couldn't  do  a  thing  out  there,  Dad,"  says 
he. 

"You  mean  you  didn't,"  says  the  other. 
' '  But  why — why  ?  That 's  what  I  want  to  know. 
What's  your  alibi!" 

"They're  against  us,  that's  all,"  says  young 
Thad.  "They  don't  intend  to  renew  our  fran- 
chise on  anything  like  the  same  terms.  They 
mean  to  raise  our  taxes,  make  us  pay  a  per- 
centage on  gross  receipts,  and  perhaps  let  in  a 
competitive  line. " 

1 1  Oh,  they  mean  all  that,  do  they ! ' '  says  Thad- 


A  SLANT  AT  THE  COMERS        135 

dens,  Sr.,  his  smolderin'  little  eyes  flarin'  up 
combative.  "How  about  what  I  told  you  to  do 
with  the  city  council  ? ' ' 

"No  use,"  says  young  Thad.  "Eeform  ad- 
ministration— two  Socialists  among  the  lot. 
You  know  that  newspaper  you  took  the  adver- 
tising away  from  for  printing  a  story  about  the 
grade-crossing  smash  last  fall?  Well,  they've 
been  pounding  you  ever  since,  stirring  up  public 
sentiment  against  the  company.  And  next  year 
matters  will  be  worse.  They're  going  to  make 
you  an  issue  in  the  coming  city  election.  I  went 
over  the  whole  situation  with  our  local  attor- 
neys. They  admitted  that  things  looked  squally. 
And,  as  I  failed  to  see  how  I  could  do  anything 
along  the  lines  you  suggested — well,  I  came 
back." 

The  Honorable  Thaddeus  stares  at  him  hos- 
tile. Then  he  turns  to  me. 

"Talk  about  young  blood  being  needed  in 
business!"  says  he.  "This  is  a  sample.  He 
goes  out  and  lets  a  sore-head  newspaper  and  a 
few  cheap  politicians  throw  a  scare  into  him; 
quits — cold!" 

"Oh,  well,"  says  I,  soothin',  "they  got  to 
learn,  I  expect." 

"If  Thad  only  would  learn!"  raps  out  the  old 
man,  pacin'  up  and  down.  "Why,  look  here: 
I'll  bet  I  could  go  out  there  to-morrow,  get  a 
line  on  that  bunch  of  ward  heelers,  and  inside  of 


136     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

a  week  have  enough  of  'em  fixed  so  I'd  be  mak- 
ing the  city  council  jump  through  a  hoop. ' ' 

Young  Thad  don't  say  a  word.  He  just 
shakes  his  head. 

"Eh?"  demands  Corson.  "Think  I 
couldn't?" 

"I  think  you  would  be  indicted  before  you 
could  get  out  of  the  county." 

"Bah!"  says  the  other.  "Maybe  you've  got 
some  brilliant  scheme  of  your  own  ? ' ' 

' '  Oh,  what 's  the  use,  Dad ! "  says  he.  *  *  They 
wouldn't  seem  good  to  you." 

"How'd  you  guess  it?"  sneers  Corson. 

"Simply  because  you  never  have  conceded 
that  I  could  possibly  know  anything  on  any  sub- 
ject whatever,"  comes  back  young  Thad. 

He  don't  say  it  messy — just  states  it  quiet 
and  patient. 

But  Corson  blows  out  his  cheeks  and  glares 
like  he'd  been  mortally  insulted. 

"So  that's  how  you  feel  about  it,  eh?"  he 
rants.  "Want  to  give  McCabe  here  the  notion 
that  you've  got  an  old  tyrant  for  a  father,  do 
you  ?  That 's  your  gratitude  for  all  I've  tried  to 
do  for  you !  What  do  you  think  of  that,  Pro- 
fessor?" 

But  I'd  had  about  enough  of  the  old  grouch 
myself. 

"Ah,  give  the  boy  a  chance,"  says  I.  "He 
might  have  a  hunch ;  who  knows  ? ' ' 


A  SLANT  AT  THE  COMERS       137 

"Very  well,"  says  Corson.  "Let  Mm  tell  us 
why  he  shouldn't  have  followed  my  orders. 
Think  I  don't  know  the  street-car  business,  eh?" 

"I  am  quite  sure  you  did  know  it — once," 
says  young  Thad.  "But  this  'fixing'  game  is 
slightly  out  of  date,  Dad.  It  doesn't  work  as 
it  used  to." 

"Oh,  doesn't  it?"  gasps  the  old  man,  gettin' 
purple  in  the  gills.  " Then  what  would ?  Let's 
hear  what  you'd  do  instead.  Or  would  you 
make  a  present  of  the  line  to  the  city  and  tell 
'em  to  run  it  as  a  public  charity?" 

"If  you  wish,"  says  young  Thad,  "I  will  give 
you  the  facts  in  this  particular  instance.  As 
you  know,  the  company  hasn't  paid  a  dividend 
in  the  last  three  years.  The  rolling  stock  is  in 
bad  shape — cars  dirty  and  shabby,  half  of  them 
with  flat  wheels,  and  all  of  them  rickety.  Then, 
there's  the  power  plant,  with  a  set  of  patched- 
up  engines  that  are  coal-eaters  and  energy- 
wasters." 

"Huh!"  grumbles  Corson,  actin'  sort  of 
jarred.  "I  suppose  you  would  give  that  one- 
horse  town  a  metropolitan  outfit?" 

"Not  precisely  that,"  says  Thad. 

"Well,  well!    Just  what  would  you  do?" 

"In  what  capacity?"  asks  Thaddeus,  Jr. 
"As  office-boy,  for  instance?" 

"No;  as  general  manager,"  raps  out  Corson. 

"Do — do  you  mean  it?"  says  the  other. 


138     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

"Why  not?"  says  Corson.  "If  I'm  an  old 
fossil,  I  ought  to  know  it;  and  if  I'm  not,  per- 
haps it  will  be  worth  what  it  costs  to  prove  it 
to  my  son.  Yes,  I'll  make  you  the  G.M.  I'll 
give  you  a  year,  full  swing.  But  I  must  know 
something  of  your  program,  cf  course. ' ' 

"Certainly,"  says  young  Thad,  producin'  a 
notebook.  "You  see,  I  had  jotted  down  a  few 
things,  just  for  my  own  satisfaction.  First,  I 
would  instal  a  new  Corliss,  so  that  we  could 
keep  our  schedules.  Then  I'd  paint  and  repair 
the  cars,  one  at  a  time,  perhaps  adding  three  or 
four  new  ones  of  the  pay-as-you-enter  type.  At 
the  same  time,  I  would  start  a  publicity  cam- 
paign— big  ads.  in  both  papers,  assuring  our 
patrons  that  wre  were  there  to  give  them  service, 
first,  last,  and  all  the  time.  There's  a  young 
reporter  on  the  Herald  out  there,  a  chap  who 
was  a  classmate  of  mine,  who  can  write  that 
sort  of  thing  with  either  hand.  Yes,  I  know  that 
is  the  paper  which  has  been  roasting  us.  But 
we  'd  forget  that.  So  wrould  they,  after  our  ad. 
contract  was  signed.  And  I  should  hope,  within 
a  month  or  so,  to  have  public  sentiment  with  us 
instead  of  against  us;  then  I  wouldn't  care 
about  the  city  council.  It 's  an  entirely  different 
policy,  I  know ;  but 

"Yes,  yes,"  breaks  in  Corson.    "It's  the  fad 
just  now — soothing  syrup  stuff.    Make  'em  be- 


A  SLANT  AT  THE  COMERS       139 

lieve  you  're  running  your  business  to  suit  them 
instead  of  yourself. ' ' 

Young  Thad  indulges  in  a  quiet  smile. 

"I  suppose  you  wanted  to  try  out  new 
methods  when  you  first  started!" 

"MeT '.says  the  old  man.  "Why,  I  began 
with  a  cable  line,  and  in  six  months  I'd  changed 
it  to  an  overhead  trolley — first  in  the  State. 
Some  of  the  directors  thought  I  was  crazy.  But 
I'd  studied  it  all  out;  I  knew  what  I  was  doing. 
You,  though!  "Why,  you've  been  out  of  college 
barely  two  years. ' ' 

"Just  look  who's  been  coaching  me  all  that 
time  though,  Dad, ' '  puts  in  Thad. 

"There,  now!  None  of  your  blarney,"  says 
Corson,  slappin'  the  youngster  playful  on  the 
shoulder.  "But  you  shall  have  a  shot  at  it, 
son — a  year's  try-out.  And  if  you  can  show  the 
old  man  any  new  tricks — well,  we'll  see." 

And  off  they  goes,  arm  in  arm — which  was  a 
happier  finish  than  I'd  looked  for  when  they 
starts  in. 

Bein'  as  how  I'd  taken  part  in  the  original 
debate,  old  Corson  sort  of  counted  me  in  on  the 
deal. 

"Wasn't  it  you  urged  me  to  give  the  boy  a 
show?"  he  demands,  next  time  he  came  to  the 
Studio.  "Well,  I've  done  it.  He's  in  full 
charge  out  there  now,  with  two  hundred  thou- 


140     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

sand  to  finance  his  schemes.  I'll  bet  he  sinks 
every  dollar. ' ' 

1  'What's  the  stock  quoted  at  now!"  says  I. 

"Around  68,"  says  he. 

"Just  as  a  flier,"  says  I,  "I'll  go  long  on  a 
hundred  shares  of  your  holdings  at  that  figure." 

"You  will?"  says  he,  gawpin'  at  me.  "By 
George,  I'll  take  you,  McCabe !"  And  I  handed 
over  a  margin  check  on  the  spot. 

Must  have  been  about  a  month  later  when  he 
comes  in  chucklin'. 

"You  would  back  young  blood!"  says  he. 
"Noticed  where  your  trolley  stock  has  slumped 
to!" 

I  said  I  hadn't. 

"Fifty-six,"  says  he.  "Had  to  pass  another 
semi-annual.  And  there 's  a  minority  committee 
applyin '  for  an  injunction. ' ' 

"That  don't  mean  much  to  me,"  says  I,  "but 
I'll  stay  with  it.  I'll  cover.  Ain't  got  his 
schemes  to  runnin'  yet,  eh!" 

"Oh,  he's  pulling  the  soothing  syrup  act,  all 
right, ' '  says  Corson.  * '  Spending  three  hundred 
a  week  on  newspaper  space.  It's  smooth  talk, 
too.  You'd  think  he  was  not  only  undertaking 
to  carry  his  passengers  home,  but  to  put  'em  to 
bed  and  shake  the  furnace  mornings.  He 's  buf- 
faloed the  city  council  so  soon.  They'll  renew 
the  charter  most  likely,  and  he 's  worked  'em  for 
two  new  turnouts.  I  understand  he's  main- 


A  SLANT  AT  THE  COMERS       141 

taining  a  ten-minute  schedule  to  three  miles  be- 
yond the  city  limits  for  a  single  fare.  That  may 
be  good  philanthropy,  but  it  isn't  good  busi- 
ness." 

Next  I  heard  from  Corson,  he  calls  up  to  can- 
cel his  afternoon  session,  and  he  talks  puffy  and 
excited. 

"I've  got  to  go  out  and  see  what  that  boy's 
up  to,"  says  he. 

"Been  plungin',  has  he?"  I  asks. 

"That  hardly  describes  it,"  says  Corson. 
1 ' Say,  what  do  you  think?  He 's  planning  to  lay 
four  more  miles  of  track  and  has  ordered  ten 
new  cars.  In  these  times!  Why,  he'll  bank- 
rupt me,  at  this  rate.  Know  what  rails  cost 
now?  And  grading  and  ties?  Suffering  Laz- 
arus! That's  what  I  get  for  turning  a  boy 
loose." 

He  shows  up  a  week  later,  wearin'  a  grin. 

"Well,"  says  I,  "did  you  block  him  off?" 

"No,"  says  he,  "I  didn't.  Instead  of  that, 
I've  come  back  to  float  a  bond  issue  for  him. 
Know  what  Thad  's  done  ?  He 's  plannin '  to  give 
the  city  a  new  amusement  park.  Yes,  sir.  He's 
organized  his  company,  got  options  on  a  hun- 
dred acres  of  land,  and  has  started  extending 
his  line.  Seems  he  found  a  real  pretty  little 
lake  out  there,  and  a  pine  grove  where  people 
have  been  in  the  habit  of  driving  out  for  picnics. 
Well,  he's  gobbled  up  the  whole  thing,  and  by 


142     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

the  Fourth  of  July  he'll  have  a  regular  little 
Coney  Island  in  full  blast.  Halfway  out  he's 
got  more  options,  and  is  promoting  a  nice  little 
suburb  with  a  golf  and  country  club  on  the  side. 
See?  Making  business  for  the  line.  And  in- 
stead of  running  half  empty  cars  he  '11  have  'em 
crowded  most  of  the  time.  Why,  I'll  bet  that 
Sundays  and  holidays  he'll  have  to  carry  ten 
thousand  people.  That's  going  to  mean  rev- 
enue. ' ' 

"And  maybe  dividends?"  I  suggests. 

"Bound  to  come,"  says  Corson.  Then  he 
stops  and  scratches  his  head.  "And  to  think 
of  Thad — just  a  boy,  as  you  might  say — work- 
ing out  schemes  like  that  which  I Well, 

I'll  have  to  own  up,  I  wouldn't  have  thought  of 
'em  in  a  thousand  years.  And  this  is  my  game, 
too,  the  one  I've  made  my  pile  at.  Oh,  Thad 
stumbled  into  luck,  that's  all.  In  the  long  run, 
it's  us  old  fellows  who  can  be  depended  on." 

"Sometimes,"  says  I.  "But  mostly  I'm 
backin '  the  comers. ' ' 

"You'll  lose  out,  then,"  says  Corson. 

"Think  so?"  says  I.  "By  the  way,  how  are 
those  shares  standing  the  strain?" 

"  Oh ! "  says  he.  ' '  Of  course,  with  all  that  new 
business  in  sight,  they're  on  the  jump.  I  look 
for  'em  to  touch  par  inside  of  six  months.  In 
fact,  McCabe,  I'll  give  you  a  thousand  to  close 
our  little  deal,  right  now. ' ' 


A  SLANT  AT  THE  COMERS       143 

" Listens  good  to  me,"  says  I.  "I'll  soak  it 
into  some  real  certificates  of  that  company 
young  Thad's  runnin'." 

And  as  we  breaks  away  we  was  both  grinnin'. 

When  I  got  home  that  night,  I  starts  to  tell 
Sadie  about  what  I'd  pinched  off;  but  she  cuts 
in  with  a  report  about  little  Sully.  Seems  he 
was  demandin'  a  pair  of  hockey  skates. 

"I  don't  think  he  ought  to  have  them,"  says 
she.  "Hockey  is  such  a  rough  game.  I  wish 
you  would  talk  him  out  of  the  notion,  Shorty." 

* '  Sure  I  will, ' '  says  I. 

I  went  about  it  real  vigorous,  too,  pointin'  out 
that  we  knew  what  was  good  for  him  a  heap 
better 'n  he  did. 

"Awr,  Pop!"  he  protests.  "Jes'  'cause  you 
didn't  uster  play  hockey  yourself!  A  lot  you 
and  ma  know  about  it.  Shucks ! ' ' 

"Now,  listen  here,  young  man,"  I  starts  in, 
"when  I  tell  you  a  thing  once,  I  want  you 
to " 

Then  I  stops ;  for,  someway,  just  about  then 
I  thought  of  old  Corson. 

"Well?"  asks  Sadie,  after  the  session  is  over, 

"Eh?"  saj-s  I,  tryin'  to  look  innocent. 

"What  about  the  hockey  skates'?"  she  de- 
mands. 

"Skates?"  says  I.  "Oh,  yes!  I  promised  to 
get  him  a  pair  in  town  to-morrow." 


IX 

A  FEW   SHIFTS   BY   HOMEK 

NOT  that  I'm  out  to  scrap  any  traditions. 
Nothing  like  that.  As  a  rule  it  don't  get  you 
anywhere.  Besides,  when  you  get  used  to  ex- 
pectin'  certain  kinds  of  parties  to  act  so  and  so 
it's  disturbin'  to  have  some  outsider  crash  in 
and  point  out  where  this  or  that  Mr.  Whosit  is 
runnin'  exactly  reverse  to  form. 

It  was  that  sort  of  smart  Aleck  stuff  this 
Barney  Shaw  tried  to  get  away  with  a  while 
back.  You  remember.  And  look  where  it 
landed  him.  One  of  his  plays  wouldn't  run  a 
month  on  Broadway  now.  Then  jumpin'  to  an- 
other line :  These  war  stories.  We  want  to  feel 
sure  right  from  the  start  that  the  noble  young 
gent  who  has  all  the  earmarks  of  a  slacker,  and 
gets  the  cruel  shunt  from  his  best  girl  on  that 
account,  is  really  a  daredevil  Secret  Service 
man  who  will  round  up  a  whole  gang  of  des- 
perate spies  along  towards  the  end.  Same  way 
with  the  poor  fish  from  the  gents'  furnishing 
department  who  seems  to  have  a  backbone  like 
a  piece  of  boiled  spaghetti  and  the  brain  con- 
sistency of  a  two-minute  egg ;  yet  when  he  gets 

144 


A  FEW  SHIFTS  BY  HOMER       145 

to  the  front  turns  out  to  be  such  a  bad  actor 
in  a  charge  that  they  have  to  rope  him  to  an 
ex-gunman  to  keep  him  from  rushin'  beyond 
the  barrage. 

No,  traditions  like  that  are  glorious  and 
sacred.  We've  been  all  of  three  or  four  years 
buildin'  'em  up  and  who  am  I  to  horn  in  and 
try  to  kick  the  underpinnin'  away,  even  in  a 
playful  mood.  So  when  I  start  slippin'  you  a 
few  facts  about  Homer  Cass  I  feel  like  I  ought 
to  begin  by  statin'  that  this  is  just  a  personal 
and  private  record  which  don't  need  to  be 
counted  in  on  the  general  dope.  And  anyway, 
Homer's  ain't  what  you  might  call  a  closed 
career.  He's  still  in  the  game,  Homer  is.  That 
being  the  case,  you  never  can  tell. 

Course,  some  would  judge  Homer  offhand, 
and  stick  to  it,  like  Swifty  Joe.  I  remember 
just  how  he  did  it,  although  it  must  have  been 
more'n  a  year  ago.  I  was  in  the  gym,  having 
put  in  a  stiff  forenoon's  work  on  three  or  four 
of  my  reg'lars,  mostly  overweight  brokers 
who'd  gone  jumpy  in  the  nerves  handlin'  a 
wild  cat  market.  I  was  scrubbin'  up  for  lunch 
too,  and  was  part  way  buttoned  into  my  street 
togs  when  Swifty  glides  in  easy  and  closes  the 
door  behind  him  gentle. 

That's  what  makes  me  stop  sudden  and  look 
up  surprised.  For  as  a  rule  Swifty 's  motions 
are  more  impetuous.  Not  that  he  ain't  an  Al 


146     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

physical  culture  assistant.  He  is.  Barrin'  the 
cauliflower  ear  and  a  few  facial  blemishes  which 
you  get  used  to  after  you  know  him,  Mr.  Galla- 
gher is  a  credit  to  his  profession.  He  may  have 
a  few  freckles  on  his  neck  and  I  don't  deny  his 
habit  of  conversin'  out  of  only  one  side  of  his 
mouth  at  a  time,  but  when  I  want  a  first  vice- 
president  well  lathered  up,  or  some  heavy 
podded  general  manager  needs  to  be  shown  how 
short  of  wind  he  is,  I  turn  'em  over  to  Swifty. 

When  it  comes  to  announcin'  guests  in  the 
front  office  I  expect  a  young  lady  secretary  or  a 
church  usher  might  do  it  different.  As  a  gen- 
eral thing  Swifty 's  play  is  to  stick  his  head  in 
the  door  and  sing  out  throaty:  "Hey,  Shorty! 
Guy  to  see  yuh."  Maybe  it's  the  head  of  some 
trust  comp'ny  that's  discovered  he  has  gouty 
joints,  or  perhaps  it's  a  paper  towel  agent  with 
figures  on  how  to  beat  the  laundry.  No  fine 
discriminations  for  Swifty.  They  all  get  the 
same  from  him  unless  it's  a  case  where  he's 
'specially  impressed,  such  as  by  a  three-chinned 
party  in  a  mink  lined  overcoat;  or  again  when 
it's  someone  whose  face  doesn't  happen  to 
please  him.  And  I  could  guess  by  the  way  he 
held  his  nose  that  this  was  a  time  when  he 
hadn't  fallen  in  love  at  first  sight. 

"Say,  Professor,"  he  growls  from  the  port 
side,  "they's  a  poor  prune  out  there  callin'  for 
yuh." 


A  FEW  SHIFTS  BY  HOMER       147 

"Is,  eh?"  says  I,  tuckin'  the  ends  of  my  bow 
tie  under  a  fresh  collar.  "What  makes  you 
think  he's  that!" 

"Ahr-chee!"  Swiftly  volleys  from  starboard. 
"Don't  his  map  slope  both  ways  from  his  squir- 
rel teeth  and  ain  't  he  pimpled  under  the  eyes  ? ' ' 

"Then  it  can't  be  Mr.  McAdoo,  or  General 
Pershing,  either,"  says  I.  "Is  he  young  or  old, 
tall  or  squatty  built?" 

"He  looks  old  for  twenty-one,"  says  Swifty, 
"and  if  his  green  suit  hadn't  faded  some  he'd 
pass  as  a  human  string  bean." 

"You're  some  vivid  describer,  Swifty,"  says 
I.  "I  don't  see  how  it  can  be  anybody  but 
Homer  Cass." 

"Come  to  think  of  it,"  says  Swifty,  "he  did 
call  himself  Mr.  Cass.  Mister,  mind  you !  And 
says  how  it's  important." 

"Sure,"  says  I.  "If  it's  anything  Homer 
wants,  it  is  important.  Bound  to  be — to  him." 

So  I  don't  rush  out  excited  before  I  has  my 
coat  half  on.  Maybe  I  took  a  little  more  time 
than  usual.  As  a  matter  of  fact  I'd  rather  have 
ducked  meetin'  Homer  than  not.  I'd  had  that 
pleasure  before,  if  you'd  call  it  a  pleasure.  As 
for  me,  I  could  work  up  lots  of  before-luncheon 
pastimes  that  would  suit  me  better;  and  I'm  no 
game  inventor,  at  that. 

Oh,  yes,  Homer  wasn't  half  the  stranger  I 
could  wish  he  was.  I'd  had  him  on  my  hands 


148     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

more  or  less  for  quite  some  time  now.  You 
know  how  specimens  like  that  get  wished  onto 
you.  Seems  his  old  man  had  been  in  my  trainin' 
camp  way  back  when  I  pulled  down  the  light- 
weight championship  that  night  in  Denver. 
And  I  don't  suppose  there  was  one  of  the  gang 
that  didn't  confide  to  me  sooner  or  later,  how 
it  was  really  him  who  was  responsible  for  my 
puttin'  it  over. 

Yet,  as  I  remember,  Long  Jim  Cass  had  the 
hard  job  of  handlin'  the  press  bunch  and  keepin' 
the  boys  from  gettin'  too  good  a  line  on  my  con- 
dition, so  my  manager  could  place  the  side 
money  at  fair  odds.  He'd  been  some  kind  of 
advance  agent  before  that,  travelin'  in  front  of 
Tom  shows  and  burlesque  outfits,  and  so  far  as 
I  could  see  his  strong  suit  was  sittin'  behind  a 
tub  of  suds  and  discoursin'  eloquent  on  what  he 
might  have  been  if  he  'd  had  a  chance. 

When  he  shows  up  here  at  the  Studio  a 
couple  of  years  back  though,  and  tows  in  this 
stringy  son  of  his,  I  has  to  fall  for  the  auld 
lang  syne  stuff.  Jim  announces  that  he's  still 
in  the  show  game,  but  it  turns  out  he's  runnin' 
an  elevator  in  a  theatre  buildin'.  About  what 
you'd  expect  of  a  man  who'd  load  up  his  boy 
with  a  name  like  Homer.  And  Mrs.  Jim  Cass, 
I  understand,  had  been  a  second  row  favorite 
who'd  been  lost  in  the  shuffle,  leavin'  the  young- 
ster for  Jim  to  bring  up  accordin'  to  his  own 


A  FEW  SHIFTS  BY  HOMER       149 

notions.  Which  he'd  done.  At  the  age  of  ten 
Homer  had  toured  around  the  Middle  West  as 
mascot  of  a  bush  league  ball  team.  Later  on 
he'd  been  an  attendant  in  a  Toledo  shooting 
gallery,  starter  at  a  Coney  Island  merry-go- 
round,  bell-hop  captain  in  an  Atlantic  City 
hotel,  and  had  filled  other  responsible  positions 
requirin'  talent  and  industry. 

Just  then  he  was  at  liberty  and  Jim  was 
willin',  on  account  of  our  being  such  old  chums, 
that  I  should  place  him  in  something  soft  with 
one  of  my  rich  friends.  Well,  mainly  to  get  rid 
of  him,  I  did  find  him  a  job  as  chalk  boy  in  an 
uptown  broker 's  branch.  At  the  end  of  a  fort- 
night he  reports  that  he's  had  to  resign  because 
the  assistant  manager  was  sore  at  his  gettin' 
so  popular  with  the  customers.  True,  what 
they  told  me  about  Homer  was  slightly  dif- 
ferent. " Sulky  and  lazy,"  was  their  verdict, 
but  after  another  visit  from  Jim  I  worked 
Homer  into  Purdy-PelPs  offices  as  street 
runner.  He  lasted  there  nearly  a  month,  chiefly 
on  account  of  his  showin'  up  so  seldom  that  it 
was  hard  to  fire  him. 

And  that's  the  way  it  had  gone.  Every  time 
he  got  kicked  out  of  a  place  I'd  tell  him  I  was 
all  through — and  the  next  I  knew  I'd  be  beggin' 
someone  to  take  him  on  in  a  new  line.  Until 
finally  I  lands  him  behind  the  soda  counter  in 
this  Seventh  Avenue  drug  store. 


150     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

"I  dunno's  I'm  goin'  to  like  it,"  objects 
Homer  after  the  first  day. 

"Sure  you  are,  Homer,"  says  I.  "I  don't 
see  why  I  didn't  think  of  it  before,  because  a 
syrup  squirter  is  just  what  you  were  born  to 
be." 

"Huh!"  says  Homer.  "Where  do  you  get 
that  stuff  I" 

"Listen,  Homer,"  says  I,  backin'  him  against 
the  wall,  "it  was  revealed  to  me  in  a  dream. 
I  could  see  you,  all  dolled  up  in  a  white  coat, 
standin'  graceful  behind  the  marble  slab  and 
dealin'  out  mixed  sundaes  to  rows  of  lovely  lady 
typists.  No  going  back  of  a  dream  like  that, 
you  know.  And  anyway,  this  is  where  I  get 
off.  This  is  the  last  chance  for  you,  ab-so- 
lute-ly.  So  you  'd  better  stick. ' ' 

And  somehow  or  other  he  does.  Not  that  he 
makes  any  hit  with  his  boss,  who  gets  purple  in 
the  face  every  time  he  looks  at  Homer  and  when 
he  meets  me  always  demands  peevish  what  it 
was  I  had  against  him.  But  counter  help  was 
gettin'  scarce  along  about  then  and  he  took  out 
his  grouch  in  threatenin'  to  give  Homer  the 
chuck  about  every  other  day.  Neither  did 
Homer  get  fond  of  his  job. 

"I  dunno  why  I  keep  on  with  the  old  sore- 
head," he  whines  to  me.  "Say,  for  doin'  the 
slave  driver  act  he  could  make  Simon  Legree 
look  like  a  glad  hand  mission  worker.  And  this 


A  FEW  SHIFTS  BY  HOMER       151 

standin'  all  day  is  awful  hard  on  the  feet.  But 
the  worst  is  the  fool  women  who  drift  up  with  a 
fifteen  cent  check  and  begin  mumblin',  'Oh, 
dear,  I  don't  know  what  I  want.  Lemme  see; 
verniller,  I  guess.'  And  when  I  start  dishin'  up 
an  ice  cream  soda  they  squeal,  'No,  no,  a  plate, 
and  maybe  I'll  have  strawb'ry  sauce — no  choc'- 
let,  stupid.'  'Wotcher  think  I  am,  a  mind 
reader?'  I  asks  'em.  Say,  they  get  me  so  I 
could  chew  glass,  some  of  them  Lizzies  do.  And 
lots  of  them  Percy  boys  are  just  as  bad.  Be- 
lieve me,  I  tell  'em  so,  too. ' ' 

"What  a  nice  pleasant  time  you  must  have 
day  by  day,  Homer,"  I  remarks. 

"Yes,  and  I'm  goin'  to  jump  the  whole 
shootin'  match  some  of  these  fine  mornin's," 
threatens  Homer.  "You'll  see." 

But  he  didn't.  He  keeps  on  jerkin'  the  silver 
levers  and  gettin'  sulkier  and  sourer  every 
week.  It's  a  wonder  that  face  of  his  didn't 
curdle  the  whipped  cream.  It 's  a  narrow  gauge, 
two-by-four  face,  with  a  little  rabbit  mouth  and 
two  projectin'  front  teeth  showin'  prominent  in 
the  middle.  Also  he  has  the  pimple  decoration 
that  Swifty  spoke  of.  Somehow  it  has  always 
seemed  to  me  that  if  I  was  runnin'  a  soda 

counter  I  wouldn't  want  clerks  that  had 

But  then,  that's  one  enterprise  I  ain't  ever 
likely  to  have  a  hand  in.  Unloadin'  Homer  on 
one  is  probably  as  near  as  I'll  ever  get. 


152     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

So  now  maybe  you  Ve  got  a  faint  idea  why  I 
don't  rush  madly  out  to  ask  Homer  what  he 
wants  this  time.  And  when  I  do  get  to  the  front 
office  I  find  him  pacin'  up  and  down  nervous 
with  a  cigarette  danglin'  from  his  lower  lip  as 
usual. 

"Well,  at  last,  eh?"  says  I.  "Been  pro- 
moted to  the  sidewalk,  have  you?" 

Homer  scowls  in  his  pleasant  way.  "Nah," 
says  he.  "  I  'm  gettin '  my  reg  'lar  thirty  minutes 
off.  I  come  around  to  see  what  you  think  of  this 
new  draft  business." 

"Why,"  says  I,  "you  got  by  last  time. 
Teeth,  wasn't  it?" 

Homer  nods.  ' '  But  they  Ve  put  me  in  class  A 
again,"  says  he.  "No  dependents,  y 'under- 
stand. Know  what  I  got  a  mind  to  do  ? " 

"Enlist  with  the  Treat  'em  Rough  corps?"  I 
asks  hopeful. 

"Not  if  I  got  good  sense  left,"  says  Homer. 
"No,  sir!  How  do  you  think  I'd  stand  if  I  was 
to  get  married?" 

"Wouldn't  let  you  out,  Homer,"  says  I. 
"Not  this  time.  You  might  get  a  different 
grade  by  it. ' ' 

"And  before  they  got  to  me  the  war  might  be 
over,  eh?"  says  he.  "Looks  like  that  was  my 
best  bet,  don't  it?  Anyway,  that's  what  I'm 
gonna  do,  get  hitched  up." 

"Homer,"  says  I,  gazin'  at  him  curious,  "you 


A  FEW  SHIFTS  BY  HOMER       153 

don't  mean  to  say  you  could  find  a  girl  fool — 
er,  that  is,  a  girl  who  'd  suit  you  I ' ' 

"Plenty,"  says  Homer,  waggin'  his  head. 
"Noticed  the  little  queen  on  the  soap  and  per- 
fume counter  at  our  place?" 

"What,"  says  I,  "the  one  with  the  thin- 
spaced  black  eyes  and  the  solid  set  to  her  jaw?" 

1 '  That 's  Edith, ' '  says  he.  * '  She  don 't  get  on 
well  at  home  and — and  we  been  goin'  around 
some  together.  Course  she's  some  snappy  in 
her  ways,  but  she  don't  mean  nothin'  by  it. 
We'd  make  a  go  of  it,  I  guess." 

"Think  you  could  finance  a  flat  on  twelve  a 
week,  Homer?"  I  suggests. 

"Oh,  Edith  would  keep  on  at  the  store,"  says 
Homer.  "We  wouldn't  say  anything  about  it 
there.  How  much  do  these  preachers  stick  you 
for  a  parlor  performance,  eh?  Well,  guess  we 
could  manage  it  by  next  week." 

And  next  thing  I  heard  they  had.  But  Homer 
gives  the  poorest  imitation  of  a  smilin'  bride- 
groom you  ever  saw.  He  says  they're  gettin' 
along  all  right.  That  was  after  the  first  ten 
days  or  so.  But  before  the  month  is  out  I 
meets  him  on  the  street  and  he  spills  this  tale  of 
woe  in  my  ear : 

"Whaddye  know  about  a  woman  that  clamps 
down  on  your  pay  envelope  and  feeds  you  a 
quarter  at  a  time  ? "  he  demands.  ' '  That 's  hog- 
gin' it  some  ain't  it?  'Who  elected  you  to  tote 


154     SHOR.TY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

the  fam'ly  wad?'  I  asks  her.  But  what's  the 
use  startin'  an  argument  with  one  of  that  kind? 
She  comes  right  back  messy  tellin'  me  where  I 
get  off  and  it  lasts  an  hour  by  the  watch.  Huh! 
Same  way  about  everything.  "Who  do  you  guess 
has  to  roll  out  at  7  A.M.  and  start  the  breakfast? 
Me !  And  wipe  the  dinner  dishes,  too.  She  even 
decides  whether  we  go  to  the  movies  or  not. 
Generally  it's  not.  Say,  I  used  to  be  bossed 
around  only  about  fourteen  hours  a  day.  Now 
it's  a  continuous  performance,  with  the  night 
shift  gettin'  worse  and  worse." 

"Listens  to  me,  Homer,"  says  I,  "like  a  pair 
of  dispositions  going  to  the  mat  for  a  draw." 

He  shakes  his  head  gloomy.  "Knockout 
more  likely,"  says  he,  "with  me  takin'  the 
count.  That  is,  if  I  don't  decide  to  quit." 

1 '  Oh,  you  two  will  shake  down  in  a  few  weeks 
more,"  says  I  soothin'.  "It's  often  that  way  at 
the  start." 

"You  don't  know  Edith  at  all,"  says  Homer. 
"And  you're  in  luck,  at  that." 

Course,  after  he's  gone  I  couldn't  help 
havin'  a  quiet  little  chuckle,  for  it  ain't  often 
you  really  know  of  a  slacker's  gettin'  so  near 
what's  comin'  to  him.  I  felt  like  someone 
ought  to  go  pin  a  medal  on  Edith.  As  for 
Homer's  threat  to  bolt,  I  didn't  take  any  stock 
in  that  at  all.  His  kind  seldom  do.  They  lack 
the  nerve. 


A  FEW  SHIFTS  BY  HOMER       155 

But  as  time  went  on  and  I  saw  nothing  more 
of  him  I  got  sort  of  curious.  So  one  day  I 
drops  around  at  the  drug  store.  And  there's 
no  Homer  in  sight  behind  the  soda  counter.  But 
the  little  lady  with  the  narrow  set  black  eyes  is 
still  dispensin'  toilet  articles.  Driftin'  over 
casual  I  invests  in  a  tube  of  shavin'  cream. 

' ' Mrs.  Cass,  ain 't  it  ? "  I  asks. 

"Well,  what  if  it  is?"  she  snaps. 

"Excuse  me,  ma'am,"  says  I,  "but  I  was 
wonderin'  where  Homer  was  these  days." 

"Were  you?"  says  she.  "That's  more'n  I 
can  say." 

"Then  he — he's  quit?"  I  suggests. 

"You  guessed  it,"  says  she.  "It's  a  case  of 
congratulations  being  in  order." 

No,  she  don't  know  where  he's  gone,  and 
don't  care.  All  she  hopes  is  that  he  never  comes 
back.  She  ain't  a  bit  interested  in  the  mystery 
of  what  might  have  happened  to  him.  I  '11  admit 
I  was  though,  in  a  mild  sort  of  way. 

And  when  I  gets  this  note  scribbled  on  a  red 
triangle  letter  head  and  dated  from  an  army 
cantonment  over  on  Long  Island  I  has  to  pass 
on  the  news  to  Swif ty  at  once. 

"Remember  your  friend  with  the  squirrel 
teeth — Homer  Cass?"  says  I.  "Well,  what  do 
you  think  he 's  gone  and  done  now? ' ' 

' '  Bit  somebody  in  the  leg  and  been  sentenced 
to  wear  a  muzzle  ? ' '  asks  Swif  ty. 


156     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

4 '  Not  at  all, ' '  says  I.  *  *  He 's  joined  up.  He 's 
a  soldier  now,  Homer  is. ' ' 

"Him!"  gasps  Swifty.  "He'll  make  a  hot 
Hun  killer,  he  will.  Why,  he's  too  yellow  to 
chew  a  marshmallow  for  fear  of  swallowin'  the 
pit!" 

1  ( Just  the  same, ' '  I  goes  on,  "  he 's  in  the  artil- 
lery. I'm  due  out  at  his  camp  Thursday,  to 
start  some  new  boxin'  squads,  so  I'll  have  a 
chance  of  seein'  Homer  in  uniform.  It  ought 
to  be  worth  while.  You  know  he  got  him  a  wife 
to  keep  out  of  the  army,  and  now  he's  enlisted 
to  get  clear  of  the  wife. ' ' 

Swifty  grins.  "That's  what  I  call  some 
shifty  guy,"  says  he. 

I  thought  so  too,  for  a  while.  And  while  I'm 
at  the  camp  I  keeps  an  eye  peeled  for  this  artful 
dodger.  But  of  the  hundreds  of  men  that  I  put 
through  exercises  that  day  there's  nobody  with 
anything  like  Homer's  classic  features.  You 
know  what  mobs  there  are  at  such  places 
though.  I  was  meanin'  to  look  him  up  after  I 
got  through  but  one  of  the  captains  insists  on 
my  go  in'  over  to  the  Officers'  Club  with  him. 

It's  quite  a  classy  joint  for  a  camp — big, 
sunny  parlors,  lots  of  easy  chair,  nice  rugs  on 
the  floor.  Then  there's  a  billiard  room,  a  hand 
ball  court  with  shower  baths,  and  off  in  one  wing 
a  reg'lar  cafe  where  they  serve  a  first  class 
meal.  The  captain  was  all  for  orderin'  up  the 


A  FEW  SHIFTS  BY  HOMER       157 

whole  program  for  me,  from  oysters  to  chicken 
a  la  King,  but  I  had  to  beg  off. 

"Thanks  just  as  much,"  says  I,  "but  a  glass 
of  buttermilk  for  mine,  if  you've  got  it." 

"Why,  certainly,"  says  he.  "Any  kind  of 
drink  you  can  name.  We've  just  installed  a 
new  soda  fountain,  you  know.  Found  an 
expert  mixer.  Let's  step  in  and  I'll  show 
you. ' ' 

And  clear  across  the  room  I  thought  I  could 
see  something  familiar  about  the  hang  of  that 
white  jacket  on  them  narrow  shoulders.  Uh- 
huh!  Homer.  He  didn't  see  me,  first  off.  He 
was  busy  waitin'  on  a  couple  of  lieutenants  who 
was  showin'  the  new  addition  to  the  cafe  to 
some  of  their  young  lady  friends.  And  they 
was  having  the  same  difficulty  decidin'  what  to 
take  as  if  they'd  been  up  against  a  reg'lar  soda 
bar. 

' '  Say,  Madge,  what  you  going  to  have ! ' '  asks 
one.  "What's  an  armistice  sundae,  anyhow? 
Would  you  risk  it,  or  stick  to  marshmallow 
float  I  Yes,  I  guess  I  will. ' ' 

I  notice  too,  that  Homer  don't  make  any  im- 
patient moves  or  snap  out  any  crisp  comments 
about  not  being  a  mind  reader.  Nothing  like 
that.  He's  about  the  tamest  soda  jerker  you 
could  ask  to  see  operate.  After  they're  all 
through  debatin'  and  chattin'  he  asks  polite  for 
the  third  time  what  it  will  be. 


158     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

"Accommodatin'  young  gent,  ain't  he?"  says 
I  to  the  captain.  '  *  Where  'd  you  get  him  ? ' ' 

"Why,  from  the  kitchen  police  squad,"  says 
the  captain.  "He  held  the  record  there  for 
being  the  worst  dish-washer,  the  most  consistent 
shirker  and  grouchiest  grumbler  of  the  lot.  His 
top  sergeant  reported  that  he  wasn't  any  good 
at  other  things,  wanted  him  sent  to  the  guard 
house  for  a  week.  So  I  had  him  brought  in. 
'What  were  you  doing  before  you  joined?'  I 
asked  him.  '  'Tending  a  soda  counter,'  says  he. 
'Good!'  says  I.  'That's  what  you'll  do  here. 
Permanent  detail. '  Bit  of  luck  for  us,  eh  ?  And 
I've  just  learned  that  the  fellow  has  a  wife 
somewhere  and  has  been  holding  out  her  allot- 
ment. He  didn't  seem  quite  pleased  when  I 
called  him  in  a  little  while  ago  and  made  him 
sign  off  her  share.  But  I  rather  think  he  under- 
stands now  that  it  goes  until  he 's  mustered  out. 
Ah !  Our  turn  now.  Buttermilk,  did  you  say  1 ' ' 

And  you  should  have  seen  the  look  on 
Homer's  face  as  he  finds  me  lined  up  across  the 
counter  from  him.  With  his  captain  standin' 
by  though  he  don't  even  bat  an  eye.  If  my 
friend  hadn't  been  called  away  just  as  we'd  fin- 
ished our  drinks  I  wouldn't  have  had  a  chance 
to  get  Homer's  views  on  his  new  job  at  all.  As 
it  is  we're  left  all  alone  for  several  minutes. 

"Funny  how  things  work  out,  ain't  it, 
Homer?"  says  I. 


A  FEW  SHIFTS  BY  HOMER       159 

"I  don't  get  you,"  says  he. 

"Why,"  says  I,  "you  got  sore  on  soda 
clerkin',  you  didn't  want  to  be  a  soldier,  and 
you  tried  to  duck  bein'  a  married  man.  Now 
you're  all  three,  ain't  you?"  And  I  couldn't 
help  windin'  up  with  a  grin. 

"Say,"  says  Homer,  glancin'  around  cau- 
tious to  see  if  it  was  safe,  "if  you  can  see  any- 
thing funny  in  that  you  ought  to  go  tell  Edith. 
Maybe  one  of  you  would  laugh  yourself  to  death 
over  it." 

And  the  last  I  saw  of  Homer  he  was  scowlin* 
at  himself  in  the  glass. 

"But  then,"  as  I  remarks  to  Swifty  Joe  later 
on,  "he  may  outlast  his  jinx.  A  few  years  from 
now  he's  liable  to  be  classed  as  one  of  the  heroes 
of  the  great  war,  along  with  the  boys  who 
turned  the  trick  at  that  Chateau  Thierry  place, 
and  most  likely  drawin'  down  a  pension.  Then 
it  '11  be  Homer 's  turn  to  grin. ' ' 


X 


I  EXPECT  I  was  tellin'  you  about  the  Kinneys 
a  while  back.  Uh-huh !  The  two  brothers  that 
live  down  on  the  marshes  and  had  the  feud  that 
was  wound  up  in  France  when  Scott  Kinney's 
boy  went  out  reckless  and  dragged  back  Cousin 
Tubby,  who'd  been  plugged  in  two  places. 

Course,  it  didn't  take  any  sharpshootin'  to  hit 
Tubby,  he  being  built  so  wide.  But  to  snake  him 
back  from  a  machine  gun  outpost  and  into  a 
first  aid  dugout  under  fire — well,  I  should  have 
wanted  nothing  less  than  a  truck,  and  a  mighty 
speedy  one,  at  that.  No  wonder  they  hung  a 
medal  on  Corporal  Buck  Kinney  and  put  his 
name  in  the  papers.  Also  I  leave  it  to  you  if 
doin's  like  that  wasn't  enough  to  put  a  crimp  in 
the  best  little  fam'ly  row  ever  worked  up. 

But  that's  all  old  stuff  now.  Let's  go.  You 
remember  this  war  business,  and  havin'  his  boy 
made  a  corporal,  spruced  Scott  Kinney  up  quite 
a  bit.  Instead  of  slouchin'  around  in  wadin' 
boots,  doin'  a  little  fishin'  and  clammin'  when  he 
felt  like  it  and  loafin'  around  Costello's  road 
house  the  rest  of  the  time,  Scott  proceeds  to  get 

160 


a  shipyard  job,  cuts  down  the  booze,  and  gives 
a  fair  imitation  of  an  industrious  citizen. 

I  thought  it  was  going  to  last,  too.  It  seems 
though  that  having  a  hero  in  the  fam'ly  was  just 
one  too  many  for  Scott.  I  believe  he  staggered 
along  under  the  honor  for  nearly  two  weeks,  and 
then  one  Saturday  night  he  makes  a  wild  leap 
from  the  water  wagon,  joins  his  old  gang  at 
Costello's  and  irrigates  his  parched  anatomy 
gay  and  careless.  Well,  you  could  hardly  expect 
anyone  with  Scott's  record  to  make  a  sudden 
shift  like  that  without  havin'  his  foot  slip  now 
and  then.  He  stuck  at  the  work  fairly  reg'lar, 
only  knockin'  off  now  and  then  to  celebrate  some 
important  event,  such  as  the  taking  of  St. 
Quentin  or  the  fall  of  Jerusalem. 

As  he  explains  to  me  one  Monday  morning 
when  I  meets  him  navigatin'  wabbly  down  the 
Post  Eoad  and  roasts  him  for  droppin'  back 
into  his  old  ways:  "Tha's  zawri',  Shorty,  but 
you — you  ain't  the  father  of  Fightin'  Buck  Kin- 
ney.  I  am."  And  he  straightens  up  dignified 
to  pound  himself  on  the  chest. 

"Admittin'  all  that,"  says  I,  "I  can't  see 
where  you  add  to  the  fam'ly  honor  by  gettin' 
lickered  above  the  ears. ' ' 

"Gar-r-r-r !"  says  Scott,  wavin'  an  imaginary 
flag.  "Ain't  we  got  th'  Bushes  on  th'  run?" 

"You've  got  yourself  on  the  toboggan,"  says 
I.  "Course,  I  don't  blame  you  for  being  proud 


162     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

of  Bucky.  But  how  proud  do  you  think  he'll 
be  of  you  when  he  comes  home  1 ' ' 

That  seems  to  penetrate  through  the  fog,  for 
Scott  stops  wavin'  and  scratches  his  grizzled 
hair.  "Tha's  so,"  he  admits.  "Sump in'  in 
that." 

1 ' You  bet  there  is, ' '  says  I.  "So  why  act  like 
you  thought  you'd  swallowed  Hindenburg  and 
could  drown  him  in  front  of  Costello's  barf" 

As  a  rule  such  advice  don't  do  much  good,  but 
in  this  case  I  handed  myself  a  decision  that 
maybe  it  had.  Anyway,  I  didn't  hear  of  Scott 
Kinney  celebratin'  any  more  victories  so  osten- 
tatious and  I  had  reports  that  he  was  workin' 
reg'lar.  Why  shouldn't  he,  at  six  per  a  day! 
Why,  he  didn  't  average  that  much  a  week  in  the 
old  days.  Didn't  even  seem  to  know  how  to  get 
rid  of  it  until  I  got  after  him  on  the  thrift  stamp 
and  liberty  bond  proposition.  So  he  must  have 
salted  down  quite  a  bit. 

When  the  war  came  to  a  finish  there  so  sudden 
though,  and  they  begun  layin'  off  men  in  the 
shipyard,  Scott  was  one  of  the  first  to  quit. 
There  were  plenty  of  other  jobs  he  might  have 
had,  at  fairly  good  money.  Three  different 
times  I  tried  to  place  him.  But  there  was 
nothing  doing. 

"What's  the  use  now?"  he  demands.  "It's 
all  over,  ain't  it?  We've  busted  that  autocracy 
business,  plumb  wrecked  it.  Me  and  Bucky.  I 


WHEN  BUDDY  BOY  CAME  BACK     163 

guess  I  helped  some.  Now  I'm  goin'  to  lay 
off." 

"You'd  be  a  lot  better  off  if  you  didn't,"  says 
I.  "  Besides,  with  these  high  prices,  your  sav- 
ings won't  last  long.  What's  the  idea,  any- 
way?" 

"I'm  kind  of  waitin'  around  for  Buck  to  come 
home,"  says  he. 

"That  may  be  months,"  says  I.  "You'll  be 
goin'  hungry  first  thing  you  know." 

"  Oh,  I  guess  not, ' '  says  Scott.  ' '  The  Gov  'n- 
ment  wouldn't  stand  for  that.  Uncle  Sam  ain't 
goin'  to  let  the  father  of  a  hero  like  Buck  Kin- 
ney  want  for  food.  Look  what  I  've  done  for  my 
country.  I've  give  a  son  who's  shed  his  blood 
on  the  field  of  honor.  He 's  got  a  medal  to  prove 
it.  Now  it's  up  to  th'  country  to  take  care  of 
us." 

"That's  a  grand  little  program  of  yours — if 
it  works  out,"  says  I. 

He's  a  pig-headed  old  pirate  too.  And  then, 
a  life  of  leisure  came  natural  for  him..  It's  in 
the  Kinney  blood,  I  expect.  He  did  go  back  to 
his  flounder  fishin'  an'  clammin'  by  spells,  but 
mostly  he  puts  in  the  time  loaf  in'  around  the 
village,  joinin'  in  loud  on  all  the  things  he  and 
his  Bucky  had  done  to  Germany  and  Turkey  and 
how  to  settle  things  in  Russia.  They  were  a 
mighty  blood-thirsty  lot,  them  bench  warmers, 
but  none  of  'em  had  anything  on  Scott  when  it 
came  to  suggestin'  ingenious  and  unpleasant 


164     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

ways  of  making  the  Kaiser  and  Crown  Prince- 
as-was  wish  they  hadn't  started  anything. 
Slicin'  their  ears  off  and  havin'  'em  walk  bare- 
foot on  barbed  wire  from  Boston  to  Chicago  was 
his  favorite  plan. 

Also  he  was  fond  of  holdin'  forth  on  the  sub- 
ject of  how  Buck  had  won  his  medal.  So  far 
as  I  could  judge  the  full  details  of  that  hero 
stunt  had  never  come  through.  You  know,  I 
was  the  one  that  got  the  official  report  from  the 
war  department,  and  while  that  had  given  the 
main  facts  in  the  case,  it  left  a  lot  to  be  filled  in. 
And  Bucky  himself  hadn't  supplied  much.  He 
never  was  what  you  might  call  a  gossipy  letter 
writer.  But  as  the  weeks  went  on  and  Scott 
Kinney  told  the  story  over  and  over  to  admirin' 
audiences,  it  got  to  be  quite  a  yarn.  The  last 
time  I  listened  in  on  it  he  had  Bucky  dashin'  for 
more'n  a  mile,  right  through  a  heavy  barrage, 
jumpin'  into  a  machine  gun  nest,  killin'  off  half 
a  regiment  of  Huns  single  handed,  and  then 
stoppin'  to  thumb  his  nose  at  a  Hun  general 
before  he  tossed  Cousin  Tubby  over  one  shoul- 
der, a  field  piece  over  the  other,  and  ambled 
back  where  Pershing  was  wavin'  his  hat  de- 
lighted. 

1 '  Yes,  sir ! "  he  finishes  up.  ' '  That 's  the  kind 
of  boys  we  raise  in  our  fam'ly.  We're  the 
fightin'  Kinneys,  we  are." 

In  spite  of  the  fact  that  this  trait  hadn't  been 


WHEN  BUDDY  BOY  CAME  BACK     165 

much  in  evidence  before,  the  crowd  let  Scott  get 
away  with  the  statement.  For  one  thing,  Rock- 
hurst-on-the-Sound  was  almost  as  chesty  over 
Buck's  little  exploit  as  Scott  was  himself,  and 
when  we  put  up  that  temporary  Eoll  of  Honor 
opposite  the  First  National  Bank  we  had  a  red 
star  painted  after  Corporal  Kinney's  name, 
with  a  footnote  in  three  inch  letters  explainin' 
how  he  'd  been  awarded  the  Distinguished  Serv- 
ice Medal. 

You  see,  while  we'd  sent  a  whole  raft  of  our 
boys  into  the  big  scrap,  including  sons  of  some 
of  our  biggest  plutes,  and  most  of  'em  had  got 
to  the  front,  the  only  one  to  pull  down  any- 
thing like  a  war  medal  had  been  Buck  Kinney. 
They  couldn't  show  anything  like  that  at 
Orienta,  just  above  us;  nor  at  Apawamis,  just 
below.  So  you  could  hardly  blame  us  for  not 
overlookin'  the  fact.  I  expect  there  wasn't  a 
speech  made  durin'  the  loan  and  war  fund 
drives  but  what  had  some  mention  of  * '  the  noble 
son  of  Rockhurst  whose  fearless  gallantry  on 
the  field  of  action  has  been  so  signally  honored 
by  the  nation." 

We  were  willin'  to  forget  that  the  noble 
Bucky  had  begun  his  heroic  career  all  unsus- 
pected by  the  general  public.  I  expect  those  of 
us  who  knew  him  by  sight  a  year  or  so  ago 
couldn't  see  much  in  him  beyond  a  lanky, 
slouchy  youth  with  a  slack  mouth  and  shifty 


166     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

eyes.  Mostly  he  hung  around  the  Bon  Ton 
Pool  Parlors,  a  cigarette  danglin'  limp  from 
one  side  of  his  mouth  and  his  back  propped 
against  something  solid.  I'd  heard  he  was  quite 
a  shark  at  Kelley  and  that  at  straight  pool  he 
could  spot  anyone  in  town  five  balls.  So  far  as 
I  know,  though,  nobody  ever  accused  him  of 
indulgin'  in  any  form  of  industry. 

But  then,  what  could  you  look  for  with  the 
bringin'  up  he'd  had?  And  he  sure  had  turned 
out  to  be  an  Al  soldier.  Cases  like  his  must 
have  been  common,  for  everyone  knows  what 
army  trainin'  has  done  for  lots  of  boys.  Maybe 
he  was  coming  out  all  right,  after  all. 

"What  do  you  think  Bucky'll  go  in  for  when 
he  gets  back?"  I  asks  Scott  one  day. 

" Politics,"  says  Scott.  "They're  goin'  to 
run  the  country,  them  boys." 

"I  shouldn't  wonder,"  says  I.  "What  I 
meant,  though,  was  what  kind  of  work  he'd 
tackle." 

"Work!"  says  Scott.  "Say,  ain't  he  done 
enough?  He'll  need  a  good,  long  rest,  he  will. 
We  both  will.  Besides,  he'll  be  busy  paradin', 
and  makin'  speeches  and  so  on." 

"But  that  won't  bring  him  anything  he  can 
trade  in  at  the  grocer's,  nor  you  either,"  I 
suggests. 

"Aw,  I  guess  the  Gov'nment's  goin'  to  look 
out  for  us,"  says  Scott. 


WHEN  BUDDY  BOY  CAME  BACK     167 

He  not  only  sticks  to  this  comfortin'  belief 
but  he  proceeds  to  practice  it  faithful.  I  tried 
my  best  to  get  him  to  put  in  a  few  days  help  in7 
my  man  Dominick  rebuild  the  seawall,  but  all 
he'd  do  was  promise  to  think  it  over,  and  three 
different  times  he  failed  to  show  up.  He  took 
to  dressin'  sloppier  than  ever  and  about  once  a 
week  was  as  often  as  he  troubled  to  shave  these 
days. 

And  then  the  transports  begun  landin'.  You 
know.  New  York  cut  loose  with  her  first  Wel- 
come Home  doin's.  I  yelled  myself  hoarse  there 
one  day  when  that  first  bunch  of  returned  heroes 
marched  up  Fifth  Avenue,  not  mistrustin'  that 
among  'em  was  Corporal  Buck  Kinney.  But 
he  was.  Soon  as  I  heard  of  it  next  mornin'  I 
tells  Sadie  and  we  jumps  into  the  roadster  and 
drives  down  on  the  marshes  to  the  little  shack 
where  Eockhurst's  only  Distinguished  Service 
man  had  been  returned  to  the  bosom  of  his 
family. 

I  must  say,  too,  that  Bucky  looked  the  part. 
He's  a  soldier,  every  inch  of  him — tall  and 
straight  and  sunburned,  with  his  shoulders 
squared,  his  lips  tightened  up  and  his  eyes 
steady.  Yes,  he  says  he's  mighty  glad  to  get 
back.  France  might  be  all  right  to  pull  off  a 
war  in,  but  as  a  place  to  live — well,  give  him  the 
U.S.A.,  every  time. 

He  gets  a  little  fussed  when  Sadie  and  I  try 


168     SHOKTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

to  tell  him  how  proud  we  are  of  him  and  all  that. 
And  our  attempt  to  pump  out  of  him  the  details 
of  that  medal  winnin'  stunt  was  almost  a  total 
failure. 

" Oh,  that  was  just  for  luggin'  Tubby  in," 
says  he.  "It  was  my  job,  anyway.  We  was  in 
lots  worse  messes  later  on.  I  didn't  know  they 
was  goin'  to  wish  any  medal  on  me.  Tubby 
would  have  done  the  same  for  me." 

Then  Scott  makes  him  get  out  his  barracks 
bag  and  exhibit  his  relics — the  Prussian  guard 
helmet,  the  shoulder  straps  cut  off  the  Hun  cap- 
tain he  fished  out  of  a  dugout,  and  the  collection 
of  belt  buckles  and  so  on.  Bucky  grins  at  some 
of  our  fool  questions. 

Mostly,  though,  he  seems  kind  of  dazed  and 
uneasy.  I  catches  him  glancin'  stealthy  at  the 
old  folks  now  and  then,  as  if  they  looked  sort 
of  strange  to  him  and  he  was  tryin'  to  get 
acquainted  all  over  again.  And  while  Scott  had 
put  on  a  celluloid  collar  in  honor  of  the  occa- 
sion, he  was  hardly  a  parent  that  could  be  gazed 
on  with  pride.  Nor  Mrs.  Scott  Kinney,  either. 
She  had  on  a  faded  old  wrapper  that  should 
have  gone  in  the  wash  tub  week  before  last,  a 
greasy  gray  sweater  with  the  sleeves  partly 
ravelled  out,  and  her  hair  was  mopped  around 
her  head  any  old  way. 

You'd  have  to  be  blessed  with  some  vivid 
imagination,  too,  to  call  the  inside  of  this  messy 


WHEN  BUDDY  BOY  CAME  BACK     169 

shack  home  sweet  home.  The  dishes  from  last 
night's  supper  and  this  mornin's  breakfast  was 
still  cluttered  around  on  the  table,  the  top  of  the 
stove  and  in  the  sink.  I  wouldn't  like  to  guess 
how  long  since  a  broom  had  been  used  on  the 
floor.  And  outside  there  was  the  same  kind  of 
housekeepin'  in  evidence — ashes  and  garbage 
dumped  where  it  had  come  handiest  to  throw 
them;  an  old  coat  of  Scott's  trampled  in  the 
mud;  broken  oars,  bottles,  boxes  and  other  junk 
scattered  about  the  yard  and  on  the  rickety 
wharf  at  the  edge  of  the  creek.  Course,  this 
was  nothin'  new.  The  Kinneys  always  had 
lived  that  way.  But  somehow  Corporal  Buck 
seemed  to  be  gazin'  around  as  if  it  was  kind 
of  strange  to  him.  Or  maybe  it  reminded  him 
of  some  of  the  places  where  he'd  been  quar- 
tered. I  couldn't  tell. 

"  Well,  you  boys  certainly  did  the  job  up  right 
over  there,"  says  I,  as  we  starts  to  leave,  "and 
when  you  feel  like  tacklin'  steady  work  with  a 
pay  envelope  coming  in  reg'lar  every  Saturday, 
remember  we  got  a  committee  that  stands  ready 
to  make  the  connection  for  you. ' ' 

1  'Much  obliged,"  breaks  in  Scott,  "but  I 
guess  Bucky  ain't  goin'  to  start  answerin'  any 
seven  o'clock  whistle  yet  a  while.  Not  him." 

And  for  a  spell  there  it  looked  like  Scott  was 
right.  As  soon  as  a  few  more  of  our  boys  begun 
driftin'  back,  some  from  demobilizin'  camps 


170     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

and  some  from  convalescent  hospitals,  we  had  a 
little  Victory  parade  of  our  own  and  a  peace 
meeting  in  Odd  Fellows'  hall.  Corporal  Kinney 
was  prominent  at  both  affairs.  They  even  got 
him  to  make  a  speech.  Wasn't  such  a  bad 
speech,  at  that.  He  didn't  pull  any  of  the 
spread-eagle  stuff  such  as  some  of  our  fire- 
eatin'  stay-at-home  patriots  fed  us.  His  talk 
was  modest  and  sober  for  the  most  part, 
although  that  tale  of  his  about  how  he  tried  to 
coach  a  squad  of  Frenchies  through  a  baseball 
game  was  good  enough  to  go  in  a  book. 

But  two  or  three  weeks  went  by  and  Buck 
didn't  apply  for  the  job  in  the  Nut  &  Bolt  works 
that  we  had  waitin'  for  him.  I  saw  him  around 
town  only  once  or  twice,  so  I  concludes  he's  still 
restin'  up.  And  Scott  ain't  in  evidence,  either. 
Finally,  one  Saturday  afternoon,  I  takes  an- 
other run  down  to  the  marsh. 

Well,  the  first  thing  I  sees  is  Scott  Kinney, 
up  on  a  little  knoll  about  a  hundred  yards  from 
the  shack,  diggin'  away  with  a  spade  so  busy 
that  he  don't  notice  me  until  I'm  almost  over 
him.  He  has  his  coat  off  and  his  sleeves  rolled 
up  and  he's  leakin'  generous,  although  it's  a 
chilly  afternoon. 

"Look  like  you  was  minin',  Scott,"  says  I. 

"Huh!"  says  he,  stoppin'  to  mop  his  face. 
"Might  as  well  be.  The  top  of  this  ground  is 
froze  hard  enough." 


WHEN  BUDDY  BOY  CAME  BACK     171 

"But  what's  the  scheme1?"  I  goes  on. 

"Better  ask  Buck,"  says  he.  "It's  his  fool 
idea.  Bulletin'  a  hothouse,  he  says,  though  why 
he  can't  wait  till  spring  is  by  me.  Him?  Oh, 
he's  up  near  Portchester,  workin'  in  a  place 
where  they  raise  cucumbers  and  lettuce  and  such 
truck  under  glass.  He  '11  be  home  soon  and  then 
we  '11  both  pitch  in  and  work  until  dark.  Bound 
to  get  this  up  by  the  end  of  the  month,  but  I 
don't  see  how  it  can  be  done." 

I  gathers  that  Buck  plans  on  startin'  in  the 
hothouse  business  for  himself  early  in  the 
spring  and  has  sort  of  drafted  the  old  man  in 
as  high  private. 

"One  of  the  ideas  he  brought  back  from 
France,"  says  Scott.  "And  say,  he's  got  a  lot 
of  'em." 

' '  I  take  it, ' '  says  I, ' '  that  there 's  more  or  less 
labor  connected  with  most  of  'em." 

"Is  there!"  snorts  Scott.  "Say,  I  ain't  been 
worked  so  hard  in  all  my  born  days  as  I  have 
since  that  boy  came  back.  This  is  only  a 
sample.  You  ain't  seen  the  house,  have  you! 
Well,  jest  come  up  and  take  a  look." 

Honest,  I  hardly  knew  the  place.  First  off  a 
little  yard  had  been  fenced  off  all  around,  and 
inside  of  that  the  ground  had  been  cleaned  up 
and  leveled  and  raked  until  it  looked  as  neat  as 
a  city  park.  Paths  had  been  laid  out  and  bushes 
and  shrubs  planted.  The  shack  itself  had  been 


whitewashed  so  it  fairly  glistened.  So  had  the 
fence,  and  even  the  wharf.  New  panes  of  glass 
had  been  set  in  the  windows  and  all  of  'em 
scrubbed.  The  chimney  had  been  topped  out 
and  out  and  back  of  it  was  a  new  shed  with  a 
run  of  chicken  wire  leadin'  down  to  the  creek. 

"What's  that  for,  Scott?"  I  asks. 

"Geese,"  says  he.  "Buck's  started  to  raise 
'em.  Another  of  his  French  notions.  Goin'  to 
have  pigs  and  a  cow  later  on,  too.  You  know 
\vhat  that  means — gittin'  up  at  daylight  to  milk 
and  mixin'  bran  mash  twice  a  day.  He's  got  his 
maw  at  it,  too.  Take  a  look  inside  if  you  don't 
believe  it. ' ' 

It's  a  fact.  The  floor  was  as  clean  as  the 
windows,  the  stove  had  been  polished  up  like 
new,  and  a  freshly  ironed  tablecloth  had  just 
been  spread.  Also  Mrs.  Kinney  was  spruced  up 
more'n  I'd  ever  seen  her  before.  With  her  hair 
washed  and  done  up  careful  and  in  that  pink 
and  white  checked  dress  she  looks  like  a  dif- 
ferent party.  More  cheerful,  too.  She  comes 
in  from  out  back  hummin'  a  song  and  'most 
blushes  when  I  remarks  on  the  change. 

"Bucky's  ideas,"  says  she.  "He's — he's 
awful  particular  about  things  since  he  come 
back  from  France." 

Then  she  shows  me  the  geraniums  growin'  in 
the  window  box  and  where  Buck  has  planned  to 
put  up  a  big  fireplace  with  an  outside  chimney. 


WHEN  BUDDY  BOY  CAME  BACK     173 

"But  I  don't  believe  I'll  ever  learn  to  cook 
all  them  French  messes  he  wants,"  says  she. 
"  Think  of  tryin'  to  make  soup  out  of  a  few 
onions  and  some  grated  cheese ;  or  from  a  scrap 
of  meat  and  a  carrot  and  a  few  green  weeds 
he  picks  up  beside  the  road!  It  seems  jest 
plumb  foolish  to  me,  but  of  course  I  keep  at  it. 
Bucky  knows  best,  I  expect. ' ' 

That  seems  to  be  Scott 's  verdict,  too,  although 
he  ain't  enthusiastic  about  it. 

"Course,  I  don't  mind  his  branchin'  out  this 
way,"  says  Scott,  "and  doin'  things  like  he's 
seen  'em  done  over  there,  but  I  wisht  it  didn't 
take  so  much  dad-blistered  work  to  put  'em 
through.  Them  Frenchies  must  be  a  mighty 
restless  lot.  Must  be  catchin',  too.  Bucky  was 
never  like  this  before  he  went  to  war." 

"Then  he  ain't  satisfied  to  wait  for  Uncle 
Sam  to  take  care  of  him,  eh!"  I  suggests. 

' '  Bucky  f ' '  says  Scott.  ' '  He  ain  't  satisfied  to 
wait  for  nothin'.  Eouts  me  out  at  4.30  these 
cold  mornin's  and  has  me  eatin'  what  he  calls 
chow  by  lamplight!  Then,  before  he  goes  off 
he'll  lay  out  enough  work  for  a  whole  gang  of 
ditch  diggers.  Gets  that  from  bavin'  been  a 
Corporal  so  long,  I  expect,  and  havin'  bossed  a 
squad  of  husky  young  soldiers.  I  ain't  used  to 
it.  Gets  me  in  the  joints  and  the  back.  No  use 
tryin'  to  argue  with  Buck,  though.  Why,  he 
says  some  of  them  French  women  would  do 


174     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

twice  as  much  in  a  day.  I  don't  see  any  let  up 
to  it,  either,  for  when  he  gets  all  them  pesky 
farm  animals  to  take  care  of,  and  the  hothouse 
goin',  it'll  keep  all  of  us  on  the  jump." 

"Won't  leave  you  much  time  to  spend  at 
Costello's  bar,  I  expect?"  says  1. 

Scott  sighs  regretful.  "I'm  off  the  hard  stuff 
for  keeps,"  says  he.  "Bucky  won't  have  it. 
All  he  lets  me  have  is  a  little  of  that  van  rooge, 
mixed  half  and  half  with  water,  twice  a  day. 
Van  rooge!  Ever  tried  it?  Got  just  about  as 
much  kick  to  it  as  so  much  circus  lemonade. 
But  that's  all  I'm  drinkin'  these  days — and  at 
meals,  too!" 

"In  other  words,"  says  I,  "you  still  have 
cause  to  cuss  the  Kaiser?" 

"I  have,"  says  Scott,  "and  between  you  and 
me,  when  Buck  ain't  around,  I  hand  them 
Frenchies  a  few.  They  may  be  our  noble  Allies 
and  all  that,  and  I'm  willin'  they  should  build 
monuments  to  us,  and  name  streets  after  Wil- 
son; but  I  wisht  when  Bucky 'd  saved  Paris  he'd 
let  it  ride  at  that  and  not  hung  around  collectin' 
so  many  of  them  back-breakin'  French  habits." 

On  the  way  home  I  has  to  chuckle  more'n 
once,  and  when  Sadie  wants  to  know  what  I'm 
grinnin'  about  at  dinner  I  remarks  offhand: 

"Why,  I  was  only  wonderin'  how  many  sol- 
diers' families  are  being  reconstructed  as  thor- 
ough as  the  Kinneys  are  gettin'  it." 


XI 

A   FOLLOW-UP   ON    SNIPE 

NOT  that  I  want  to  hand  myself  any  more'n 
I  deserve,  but  now  and  then  I  do  come  across 
with  the  happy  hunch.  Such  as  this  idea  of 
mine  about  placin'  one  of  our  returned  heroes. 
Uh-huh.  The  minute  I  hears  Swifty  Joe  Gal- 
lagher tellin'  about  this  soldier  cousin  of  his  I 
thinks  of  Mrs.  Boomer-Day.  Course,  I  don't 
hold  that  nobody  else  would  have  had  the  same 
thought;  some  would,  and  then  again  some 
wouldn't. 

You  see,  she  'd  been  over  to  our  house  only  the 
evenin'  before,  gushin'  away  as  usual  about  this 
and  that.  And  as  a  rule  I'm  apt  to  do  a  quiet 
sneak  whenever  Mrs.  Boomer-Day  shows  up,, 
unless  I'm  backed  into  a  corner  and  have  to- 
stick  it  out,  in  which  case  I  open  both  ears  and 
try  to  let  her  chatter  breeze  through  without 
cloggin'  the  works. 

But  this  time  she  happens  to  strike  a  line  that 
got  me  listenin'  in  spite  of  myself.  She's  tellin' 
Mrs.  McCabe  how  interested  she  is  in  this  won- 
derful reconstruction  work  that's  being  done  for 
our  dear  gallant  soldier  boys  who  have  come 

175 


176     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

Jiome  from  France  all  shot  to  pieces  and  other- 
wise disabled. 

Seems  she'd  taken  a  three  weeks'  art  course 
herself  and  was  all  equipped  to  teach  one-armed 
heroes  how  to  paint  blue  butterflies  on  pink 
cream  jugs,  so  they  might  support  themselves 
and  their  families  and  be  self-respecting  and 
independent,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  Some- 
how, though,  the  Reconstruction  Committee  had 
taken  no  notice  of  her  offer  to  give  up  two 
afternoons  a  week  to  this  noble  work,  and 
she  felt  just  too  terrible  for  anything  about 
it. 

"Yes,  after  all  that  preparation,  you  must," 
says  Sadie,  rollin'  her  eyes  at  me. 

"And  so,"  goes  on  Mrs.  Boomer-Day,  wavin' 
her  gold  lorgnette  and  shruggin'  her  wide  shoul- 
ders, "I  have  decided  to  do  something  in  a  per- 
sonal way ;  on  my  own,  as  it  were. ' ' 

"Yes?"  says  Sadie,  encouragin'. 

"I  mean  to  take  one  right  into  my  home," 
announces  Mrs.  Boomer-Day.  "Of  course,  not 
in  a  way  to  make  him  feel  that  he  is  an  object 
of  charity.  I  shall  make  a  place  for  him;  find 
some  useful  employment  about  the  estate,  and 
then  go  ahead  with  the  reconstruction  work  dur- 
ing his  spare  time.  I  could  use  one  as  an  extra 
chauffeur,  for  instance;  that  is,  providing  I 
could  find  just  the  right  person.  Would  it  not 
be  thrilling  now,  to  take  one  of  those  poor 


A  FOLLOW-UP  ON  SNIPE          177 

maimed  heroes  of  Cantigny  or  Chateau  Thierry 
and  put  him  on  his  feet  again?" 

Sadie  admits  that  it  would,  and  they  drifts 
off  into  discussin'  other  important  subjects, 
such  as  what  to  do  when  ene's  darling  little 
chow  insists  on  nippin'  the  butler  playful,  and 
whether  summer  furs  will  be  worn  as  much  next 
season  as  last.  So  I  remembers  a  date  I  didn't 
have  at  the  Country  Club  and  makes  my  get- 
away. 

Must  have  been  only  the  next  mornin',  and 
at  the  Physical  Culture  Studio,  that  I  hears 
Swif ty  Joe  grouchin'  away  to  himself.  And  him 
being  the  most  talented  and  high-priced  Studio 
assistant  in  the  profession,  I  naturally  asks 
what 's  gone  wrong. 

"Ahr-r-r  chee!"  remarks  Swifty,  usin'  the 
south  side  of  his  mouth.  "It's  easier  tellin' 
what  goes  right  these  times." 

"Yes,  but  nobody  does,"  says  I;  "so  let's 
have  the  chief  complaint.  Have  they  raised 
your  rent  again,  or  is  it  that  your  favorite  con- 
ductorette  has  been  fired?" 

"Nah,"  says  Swifty.  "I  got  a  three-year 
lease,  and  I  don't  play  no  fav 'rites  with  them  B. 
K.  T.  lizzies.  It's  the  raw  deal  muh  cousin 
Snipe  gets  after  they've  shipped  him  back  from 
France  in  a  cattle  boat  that  makes  me  good  an' 
sore." 

"Oh,  yes,"  says  I;  "that  soldier  cousin  of 


178     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

yours,  eh — the  one  who  was  gassed  and  shell- 
shocked  ?  I  thought  they  fixed  him  up  at  a  base 
hospital?  Got  some  extra  pay,  too,  didn't 
he?" 

" Suppose  he  did!"  says  Swifty.  "A  guy 
can't  live  the  rest  of  his  life  on  $60,  can  he? 
Yet,  when  he  shows  up  at  the  brass  bed  works 
and  asks  for  his  old  place  on  the  truck,  there's 
nothin'  doin'.  A  foreman  by  the  name  of 
Engelmeyer  gives  him  the  laugh.  That's  what 
he  gets  for  bein'  a  Hun  chaser.  He  comes  back 
to  have  a  home-grown  Fritzie  do  him  out  of  his 
job.  Yar-r-r!  An'  he's  been  livin'  off'n  me 
six  weeks  now." 

"It's  all  wrong,  Swifty;  dead  wrong,"  says  I. 

"Yes;  but  who's  goin'  to  care?"  demands 
Swifty. 

"I  am,  for  one,"  says  I.  "You  'phone  home 
for  this  hero  cousin  to  come  right  over,  and  if  I 
don't  land  him  in  work  before  the  week's  out 
I'll  pay  his  board  until  I  do." 

"Now  you're  saying  sump'n',"  says  Swifty. 

Course,  I  don't  mean  to  play  myself  for  any 
quick-action  philanthropist.  I  was  plannin'  on 
unloadin'  the  cousin  on  Mrs.  Boomer-Day  right 
off.  But,  say,  an  hour  or  so  later,  when  I'm 
bein'  introduced  to  Mr.  Snipe  Gallagher,  I 
begun  to  have  my  doubts. 

No  need  to  ask  why  he  was  called  Snipe. 
With  a  nose  like  that  he  couldn't  escape  it. 


A  FOLLOW-UP  ON  SNIPE          179 

If  he  'd  grown  as  high  in  proportion  as  his  nose 
was  long  he'd  been  eight  feet  tall.  But  he 
hadn't.  In  fact,  he  must  have  stretched  that 
skinny  neck  of  his  when  he  passed  the  examinin' 
board.  They  couldn't  have  picked  him  for  his 
beauty,  either;  for  besides  the  lop  ears  and  the 
pop  eyes,  he  has  a  whopper  jaw  that  gives  him 
about  as  mismated  a  set  of  features  as  you 
could  find.  And  as  if  he  wasn't  tough  enough 
lookin'  at  his  best,  what  does  he  costume  him- 
self in  but  a  ragged  old  gray  sweater  and  an 
over-sized  suit  of  clothes  that  should  have  gone 
to  the  Belgians  two  seasons  ago.  Still,  there  is 
something  kind  of  appealin'  in  that  twisty  smile 
he  gives  you. 

"What  you  done  with  the  uniform?"  I  de- 
mands. 

"Ah,  I  got  sick  enough  of  that  on  the  other 
side,"  says  he.  "I  only  put  it  on  Sundays 
now. ' ' 

"Better  get  the  good  of  it  before  your  three 
months  are  up,"  says  I.  "What  branch  were 
you  in  over  there  ? " 

"S.O.S.,"  says  he.  "First  off,  they  had  me 
drivin'  a  truck,  but  after  that  I  got  stuck  with 
an  emergency  repair  outfit — reg'lar  flyin' 
garage,  you  might  say." 

"So  you  got  to  know  something  about 
tinkerin'  up  gas  engines,  eh?"  says  I. 

"Did  I!"  says  Snipe.    "Say,  if  you'll  show 


180     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

me  a  motor  I  couldn't  take  apart  and  put  to- 
gether blindfolded  I'll  eat  a  brake-linin'." 

That  listened  encouragin'.  An  extra  chauf- 
feur who  could  put  a  crimp  in  the  repair  bills 
ought  to  be  worth  while  havin'  around. 

"Harken  to  me,  Mr.  Gallagher,"  says  I. 
"Chase  home  and  button  yourself  into  the  old 
khaki  once  more ;  treat  yourself  to  a  close  shave 
and  a  scrub  behind  the  ears,  and  brush  up  the 
overseas  cap.  Also  shine  up  your  campaign 
shoes  like  you  was  due  for  dress  parade.  Then 
report  back  here  before  5  o'clock.  If  all  goes 
well  and  nobody  makes  any  bad  breaks,  you'll 
have  as  swell  a  job  wished  onto  you  as  any  buck 
private  could  ask  for." 

"I  sure  could  use  one,"  says  Snipe,  grinnin' 
generous.  "Swifty  here  is  a  perfectly  good 
cousin — for  a  couple  o'  weeks  at  a  time.  After 
that  he's  a  20-minute  egg." 

Well,  before  leavin'  I  gets  Mrs.  Boomer-Day 
on  the  wire  and  announce  how  I'm  bringin'  out 
a  returned  soldier  that  needs  reconstructin'  the 
very  worst  way. 

''Why,  how  splendid!"  says  she.  "Is  he — 
that  is,  has  he  been  badly  wounded?" 

"Well,  not  exactly  mangled,"  says  I;  "but  the 
gas  got  him,  and  he  was  near  bein'  bumped  off 
by  a  shell. ' ' 

"Isn't  that  interesting!"  says  Mrs.  Boomer- 
Day.  "What  experiences  he  will  have  to  tell! 


A  FOLLOW-UP  ON  SNIPE          181 

I  do  hope,  though,  he  will  be  somewhat  useful. 
What  can  he  do,  for  instance?" 

"Oh,  only  expert  chauffing  and  all-round  re- 
pairing," says  I.  "He'll  keep  your  cars  tuned 
up  so  you'll  forget  what  repair  bills  look  like." 

"Really!"  says  she.  "How  fortunate  for 
both  of  us." 

Yes,  it  looked  that  way.  For  when  Snipe  Gal- 
lagher appears  in  his  fightin'  clothes  he  don't 
seem  more'n  half  as  tough  as  he  does  in  his 
South  Brooklyn  civilians.  Course,  you  wouldn  't 
mistake  him  for  any  Y.M.C.A.  secretary  or  a 
movin'  picture  soldier,  and  there's  no  way  of 
disguisin'  such  a  nose  as  his  unless  he  wore  a 
gas  mask  constant.  But  you'd  guess  at  a  glance 
he  'd  used  that  uniform  at  the  front. 

Mrs.  Boomer-Day  squeals  delighted  when  I 
tows  him  in,  and  the  next  thing  I  know  Snipe 
has  been  hired  at  ninety  a  month  and  found,  and 
is  being  asked  to  tell  all  about  what  he  did  in 
the  great  war. 

' l  Me  ? ' '  says  Snipe.  ' '  Oh,  mostly  I  laid  in  the 
mud  under  some  motor  truck  that  had  been  put 
out  of  commission." 

"How  charmingly  modest!"  says  Mrs. 
Boomer-Day.  "But  you  must  have  taken  part 
in  those  dashing  advances  when  the  Hun  in- 
vader was  swept  back  out  of  dear  France?" 

"I  dunno,"  says  Snipe.  "Mainly  I  was 
under  trucks." 


182     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

"In  what  great  battle,  though,"  insists  Mrs. 
Boomer-Day,  "was  it  that  you  were  shell- 
shocked!  Chateau  Thierry,  St.  Mihiel,  Belleau 
Wood?" 

"It's  by  me,"  says  Snipe.  "It  was  some- 
where in  the  mud. ' ' 

Mrs.  Boomer-Day  does  that  baby  pout  of  hers 
and  turns  to  me,  sort  of  disappointed.  So  I 
takes  a  hand. 

"Maybe  you  can  remember  where  it  was  you 
got  gassed?"  says  I. 

Snipe  massages  his  left  ear  reflective  and  then 
a  look  of  almost  human  intelligence  flickers  into 
them  pop  eyes.  "Yea-uh,"  says  he.  "That 
was  a  muddy  spot,  too." 

"Ah,  come,  Gallagher,"  says  I;  "didn't  you 
run  across  anything  else  in  little  old  France  but 
mud?" 

"Not  much,"  says  Snipe.  "It  was  the  mud- 
diest war  I  was  ever  in. ' ' 

And  as  I  leads  him  off  to  show  him  where  his 
quarters  are,  out  in  a  double-breasted  brick 
garage  that  looks  like  a  young  city  hall,  I  speaks 
a  few  plain  words  in  his  ear.  "You're  a  bird, 
you  are,  Snipe,"  says  I.  "Come  near  queerin' 
yourself  first  rattle  out  of  the  box.  Now  listen 
— next  time  the  lady  taps  you  for  war  reminis- 
cences see  that  you  turn  on  some  reg'lar  hor- 
rors for  her,  and  for  the  love  of  Mike  forget 
the  mud." 


A  FOLLOW-UP  ON  SNIPE          183 

"Huh!"  says  Snipe.  "That  was  the  kind  of 
mud  you  don't  forget  easy." 

Still,  Mrs.  Boomer-Day  is  a  persistent  old 
girl,  and  I  was  bankin'  on  her  pumpin'  some 
thrillin'  tales  out  of  Snipe  sooner  or  later.  The 
reports  I  get  through  Sadie,  though,  don't  tell  of 
any  progress  along  that  line. 

' '  She  thinks  he  must  be  rather  stupid, ' '  says 
Sadie.  '  *  He  doesn  't  seem  to  know  where  he  was 
or  what  he  did  during  all  those  months  he  was 
at  the  front.  And  as  for  learning  anything  new 
— why,  he  can 't  even  learn  to  stencil  designs  on 
furniture.  He  has  just  spoiled  a  whole  break- 
fast room  set  trying. ' ' 

"Then  she'd  better  be  satisfied  to  keep  him  as 
chauffeur,"  I  suggests. 

"But  he's  such  a  weird  looking  creature  in 
livery,"  says  Sadie.  "Have  you  seen  him 
wearing  a  cap?" 

I  hadn't.  I  gathered  though,  that  Snipe's 
nose  wasn't  built  to  go  with  a  low  vizor,  and 
that  the  Boomer-Days,  after  one  glimpse  of  him 
on  the  front  seat  of  the  limousine,  had  given  him 
a  permanent  detail  to  the  housekeeper 's  market 
roadster.  They're  mightly  finicky  about  the 
looks  of  things;  'specially  Mrs.  Boomer-Day, 
who's  a  chronic  social  climber.  Course,  she 
don't  fail  to  advertise  how  she's  helpin'  a  shat- 
tered hero  back  to  health  and  fortune,  but  she 
ain't  strong  for  exhibitin'  him  in  public.  And 


184     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

then,  right  in  the  midst  of  the  social  season,  she 
turns  her  big  trick. 

"What  do  you  think,  Shorty?"  Sadie  an- 
nounces one  night  at  dinner.  "The  Boomer- 
Days  are  going  to  entertain  a  real  English 
lord." 

"Well,"  says  I,  "he'll  be  entertained  all 
right,  unless  Mrs.  Boomer  has  paralysis  of  the 
tongue  or  something  like  that.  Where 'd  they 
round  him  up?" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Boomer-Day  met  him  in  a  business 
way, ' '  says  Sadie.  ' '  He  came  with  a  letter  from 
Boomer-Day's  London  bankers.  He's  young 
Lord  Eipley,  late  of  the  Boyal  Flying  Corps, 
and  is  over  here  to  inspect  our  aerial  mail  serv- 
ice. So,  of  course,  Mrs.  Boomer-Day  insisted  on 
asking  him  out  for  the  week-end.  He's  coming 
to-morrow  afternoon." 

"Then  I  see  where  the  gold  service  plates 
comes  out  of  cold  storage  once  more,"  says  I. 
"Wonder  if  they'll  hide  Snipe  Gallagher  in  the 
sub-cellar  durin'  the  royal  visit?" 

"Oh,  I  nearly  forgot  the  tragic  part,"  says 
Sadie.  ' '  Their  regular  chauffeur  has  developed 
a  perfectly  amazing  boil  on  his  neck  and  can't 
bow  respectfully  without  almost  killing  himself. 
They  had  a  rehearsal  this  afternoon,  and  he 
simply  collapsed  with  pain.  Now  they  are  try- 
ing to  drill  Gallagher  for  the  part.  You  see,  he 
has  to  meet  Lord  Eipley  and  Mr.  Boomer-Day 


A  FOLLOW-UP  ON  SNIPE          185 

at  the  station,  and  they're  afraid  he'll  do  some- 
thing dreadful — like  not  jumping  out  to  open 
the  door,  or  forgetting  to  touch  his  cap." 

11  Wouldn't  that  be  awful!"  says  I,  grinnin'. 

"It  might  call  Lord  Ripley's  attention  to 
him,"  says  Sadie,  "and  you  know  Gallagher 
isn't — well,  he  isn't  decorative,  to  say  the 
least," 

"Couldn't  they  hang  something  over  his 
nose?"  I  suggests. 

"They've  decided  to  make  him  wear  his  khaki 
uniform,  anyway,"  says  Sadie,  "and  that  will 
be  some  improvement.  But  Mrs.  Boomer-Day 
is  sure  he  '11  do  something  to  mortify  her.  And, 
by  the  way,  she  thinks  that  perhaps  you  might 
talk  to  Gallagher  and  suggest  a  few  tilings." 

"Me?"  says  I.  "How  do  I  get  rung  in  on 
this?" 

"Why,  he  thinks  you're  just  about  right,  you 
know,"  says  Sadie. 

"He  never  told  me  anything  like  that,"  says 
I.  "But  even  so,  what  could  I  tell  him  about 
meetin'  the  nobility?  If  I've  got  a  short  line, 
it's  that." 

* '  Rubbish,  Shorty ! ' '  says  Sadie.  '  *  You  know 
how  a  chauffeur  should  act.  Anyway,  they're 
going  to  send  him  around  in  the  morning,  to 
take  you  down  to  the  station,  and  you  can  coach 
him  a  little  then.  He  '11  listen  to  you.  Tell  him 
not  to  slouch  behind  the  wheel;  that  he  mustn't 


186     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

be  smoking  a  cigarette  when  he  has  anyone  in 
the  car,  and  that  if  by  any  chance  Lord  Ripley 
should  speak  to  him  he  must  touch  his  cap  and 
say, '  Yes,  my  lord. '  Things  like  that. ' ' 

"Oh,  boy!"  says  I.  "Me  teachin'  court 
etiquette!  Say,  that's  good  enough  to  go  in  a 
joke-book. " 

All  the  same,  though,  when  Snipe  rounds  up 
with  the  rollin'  boudoir  at  8.03  next  mornin',  I 
spring  it  on  him.  "Hey!"  says  I,  "am  I  sub- 
bin'  for  the  nobility?" 

"I  expect  so,"  says  Snipe,  unreefin'  one  of 
them  crooked  grins. 

"Then  hop  out  and  untie  the  door,"  says  I. 
"That's  it.  Now  pull  the  salute  stuff.  Ah, 
make  it  snappy,  can't  you?  Yes,  that's  better. 
Know  what  comes  next?" 

"Where  to,  sir?"  says  Snipe. 

1 1  Perfectly  rotten ! ' '  says  I.  ' '  That  ain  't  the 
line  at  all. ' ' 

"Oh!"  says  Snipe,  catchin'  his  breath,  "I 
forgot.  Where  to,  my  lord?" 

"Well,  that  might  pass,"  says  I,  "unless  he 
happens  to  be  fussy,  which  he  probably  is.  You 
better  say  it  over  again  when  we  get  to  the 
station." 

"Gee!"  says  Snipe,  "I been  sayin'  it  all  night 
in  my  sleep.  You  know,  Professor,  they  nearly 
got  me  scared  stiff  over  meetin'  this  fool  lord. 
How  should  I  know  what  to  do  1 " 


A  FOLLOW-UP  ON  SNIPE          187 

"You  don't  mean  to  say,  Snipe,"  I  demands, 
"that  this  is  your  first  lord?" 

'  *  Ab-so-lutely, ' '  says  he.  "  And  I  hope  it  '11  be 
my  last." 

"Most  likely  it  will  be,  unless  you  buck  up," 
says  I.  "And  just  remember,  if  they  catch  him 
lookin'  cross-eyed  at  you  the  very  least  they'll 
do  will  be  to  give  you  the  quick  can. ' ' 

"I  wisht  I  was  back  drivin'  a  truck,"  sighs 
Snipe. 

Well,  as  a  general  thing  I  ain't  much  of  a 
hand  to  rubber  around  at  such  times,  but  havin' 
been  made  sort  of  responsible  for  Snipe  Gal- 
lagher, I'll  admit  I  got  kind  of  curious  to  see 
how  he  would  get  away  with  it  when  the  time 
came.  So,  instead  of  taking  the  5.15,  as  usual, 
I  quits  the  Studio  early  enough  to  catch  the  4.03 
express.  And  by  hoppin'  off  the  smoker  I'm  in 
time  to  slip  behind  a  baggage  truck  close  to  the 
scene  of  action. 

Snipe  is  right  on  hand,  too.  He's  been 
scrubbed  and  brushed  until  his  old  uniform 
looks  like  it  had  just  come  from  the  Q.M.,  and 
he's  standin'  as  stiff  as  if  he'd  been  dipped  in 
glue  and  set  out  to  dry.  Only  his  right  arm  is 
twitchin'  nervous,  preparin'  for  the  salute,  and 
there's  a  sort  of  a  panicky  look  in  them  pop 
eyes.  I  didn't  dare  whisper  to  him  for  fear  I'd 
break  the  spell. 

And  in  a  minute  here  comes  Boomer-Day, 


188     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

steppin'  along  brisk  and  important,  the  way 
little  men  do,  and  sort  of  steerin'  by  the  elbow  a 
tall,  good-lookin'  young  chap  who's  wearin'  a 
plain  business  suit  and  a  soft  hat  with  the  brim 
bent  down  in  front.  Behind  them  trots  another 
young  gent,  dressed  about  the  same,  but  luggin' 
two  kit-bags.  Course,  I  spots  the  pair  as  his 
lordship  and  his  man. 

They'd  got  almost  to  the  limousine  when 
Boomer-Day  turns  to  give  some  directions  to  the 
valet,  and  about  then  I  hears  a  gasp  from  Snipe. 
Almost  the  same  time  the  young  chap  stops  in 
his  tracks,  stares  a  second  at  Snipe,  and  then 
sings  out  cordial : 

11  Oh,  I  say !    If  it  isn  't  the  Blessed  Yank ! ' ' 

' '  The  Flyin '  Buddie ! ' '  says  Snipe. 

"You  bloomin'  old  rotter!"  says  the  other, 
grabbin'  him  by  the  hand  and  pump  in'  his  arm 
up  and  down.  ' '  Whatever  are  you  doing  here  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  Gawd!"  says  Snipe,  startin'  sudden  and 
glancin'  around.  "I'll  get  busted  for  this  sure. 
I'm  down  here  to  meet  a  fool  lord.  See?  I'm 
drivin'  this  bus  for  Boomer-Day,  and  he's  liable 

to  show  up  any  minute  with Gosh !  There 

he  is  now ! ' ' 

Yep,  there  he  was.  And  he  is  turnin'  purple 
in  the  gills  as  he  sees  who  his  chauffeur  is 
shakin'  hands  with. 

"Must  be  some  mistake,  Yank,"  says  the 
young  chap,  his  eyes  twinklin'.  "I'm  the  only 


A  FOLLOW-UP  ON  SNIPE          189 

guest  Boomer-Day  has  with  him  this  trip,  and 
you  wouldn't  call  me  a  fool  lord,  would  you?" 

' '  You  ? ' '  says  Snipe,  grinnin ',  relieved.  '  *  Aw, 
say!  Same  old  kidder,  eh?  Remember  that 
time  we  was  hung  up  in  that  cabbage  cellar 
while  Fritz  was " 

I  didn't  get  the  rest  of  it,  for  just  then  some- 
one touches  me  on  the  arm,  and  I  finds  Boomer- 
Day  standing  there  nearly  speechless. 

"McCabe,"  says  he,  "could — could  you 
kindly  tell  me  why  that  idiot  chauffeur  of  mine 
is  pounding  Lord  Ripley  on  the  back?" 

"It's  by  me,"  says  I;  "but  they  listen  like  a 
couple  of  old  college  chums." 

* '  Impossible ! ' '  says  Boomer-Day. 

"Then  why  not  crash  in  and  find  out?"  I 
suggests . 

Which  he  finally  does. 

4 '  My  word ! ' '  says  Lord  Ripley.  ' '  Here  is  the 
one  Yankee  I  was  hoping  against  hope  I  could 
find.  But  I  suppose  he's  told  you  something 
about  that  little  affair  of  ours  over  there?" 

Boomer-Day  can 't  trust  himself  to  speak.  He 
just  shakes  his  head.  Then,  sort  of  husky,  he 
adds:  "In — in  the  war?" 

"Of  course,"  says  his  lordship. 

"All  I've  heard  Gallagher  mention,"  says 
Boomer-Day,  "was  about  the  mud." 

"Oh,  yes!"  says  Lord  Ripley.  "Beastly 
mud,  too.  But  that's  where  the  Blessed  Yank 


190     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

came  out  strong.  It  was  up  on  the  Flanders 
front.  I'd  been  having  a  lively  little  show  all 
on  my  own  with  a  big  Fokker.  I'd  winged  him 
once,  and  was  diving  to  get  under  him  for  a 
finish  round,  when  the  lucky  beggar  put  a  stray 
shot  through  the  feed  pipe  and  my  motor  went 
dead.  Down  I  goes,  just  at  dusk.  Oh,  I  was 
planing  all  right  but  I  couldn't  quite  make  back 
of  our  lines.  Landed  near  enough  between  two 
shell  holes ;  but  it  was  no  place  to  stop.  Only 
the  dark  and  fog  saved  me.  If  the  Huns  had 
turned  a  machine  gun  on  me!  But  they 
didn't. 

"And  somehow  I  wriggled  back,  found  one  of 
our  observation  posts,  convinced  the  bally  lieu- 
tenant I  wasn't  a  spy,  and  got  taken  through 
the  wire.  But  how  I  did  hate  to  leave  the  old 
bus  out  there.  And  our  squadron  headquarters 
forty  kilometers  or  more  away.  Well,  I'd  pad- 
dled through  miles  of  communication  trenches 
when  I  ran  across  this  mired-in  American  unit, 
with  a  perfectly  good  machine  shop  on  board. 
They'd  been  sent  out  to  tinker  up  some  of  our 
ammunition  lorries,  and  the  sergeant  in  charge 
was  a  decent  sort.  When  I  asked  him  if  he  had 
a  spare  mechanic  who  was  willing  to  take  on  a 
job  out  in  No  Man's  Land  he  said  he'd  call  for 
volunteers.  It  was  Gallagher  here  who  stepped 
out.  Also  it  was  Gallagher  who  went  back  with 
me,  through  all  that  soupy  landscape,  helped  me 


A  FOLLOW-UP  ON  SNIPE          191 

bluff  my  way  past  the  line,  and  fitted  me  out 
with  a  new  copper  feed  pipe,  almost  under  the 
very  nose  of  Fritz.  They  heard  us,  of  course, 
and  shot  the  fog  full  of  holes  trying  to  locate  us ; 
but  Gallagher  carried  on  as  if  he  was  doing  the 
job  in  a  back  area.  And  inside  of  half  an  hour 
we  had  the  old  bus  going  and  were  sailing  out  of 
that.  Do  you  wonder  I  called  him  the  Blessed 
Yank  from  then  on?  Or  that  I  kept  at  our 
major  until  he  had  Gallagher  transferred  to  our 
shops.  Eh,  what?" 

Course,  we  stands  there,  Boomer-Day  and  me, 
gawpin'  at  Snipe,  who  is  grinnin'  foolish  and 
starin'  admirin'  at  Lord  Eipley.  All  of  a  sud- 
den he  comes  out  of  the  trance  and  remembers 
his  job. 

1  'Where  to,  sir?"  says  he,  salutin'  zippy. 

"Home,  you  beggar!"  says  his  lordship, 
givin'  Snipe  a  dig  in  the  ribs.  "And  see  that 
you  wait  up  for  me  after  dinner  to-night.  I'm 
coming  out  and  smoke  a  pipe  or  so  with  you, 
old  son." 

I  heard  he  did  it,  too.  Also,  I'm  told  that  dur- 
ing most  of  the  dinner  Mrs.  Boomer-Day  had  to 
listen  while  Lord  Ripley  told  her  what  a  ripping 
sort  her  substitute  chauffeur  was. 

But  it  wasn't  until  Monday  night  that  I  had 
any  direct  word  from  Snipe  himself.  He  comes 
over  on  purpose  to  spill  the  news  to  me. 

"Do  you  know  what,  Professor?"  says  he. 


192  SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

"That  Flyin'  Buddie,  he— he's  a  lord,  after 
all." 

* '  Seems  to  be  a  regular  guy,  though, ' '  says  I. 

"You  bet  he  is!"  says  Snipe.  "And,  say, 
that  ain't  the  best  of  it.  He's  fixin'  to  keep  on 
with  the  flyin'  game — air  passenger  service  out 
of  London — and  he's  signed  me  up  as  head 
mechanic.  I'm  quittin'  the  Boomer-Days  next 
week. ' ' 

"That  sounds  like  you'd  fell  into  something 
good,  eh?"  says  I. 

"Good?"  says  Snipe.  "Why,  man,  I'm 
ridin'  on  the  world!" 

As  I  remarks  later  to  Mrs.  McCabe :  "  It 's  a 
poor  war,  Sadie,  that  don't  work  out  well  for 
some. ' ' 


XII 

WHEN   EDGAR  PLUS   FORGOT 

IF  it  had  been  'most  any  of  the  neighbors  but 
Edgar  I  wouldn  't  have  minded  a  bit.  He 's  the 
last  one  though  that  I  wanted  to  see  crash  in  at 
just  that  particular  time,  and  of  course  it  was 
him  that  came. 

You  see,  I  was  entertainin'  ex-Corporal  Buck 
Kinney.  It's  got  to  be  kind  of  a  Saturday  night 
habit  of  mine.  Must  have  begun  a  couple  of 
months  ago  when  I  finds  Buck  waitin'  patient 
out  in  the  lee  of  the  garage  with  his  old  trench 
coat  collar  turned  up  around  his  ears  and  his 
overseas  cap  pulled  down  inside  of  that.  I  dis- 
covers he's  got  a  date  with  Helma  for  a  dance 
or  something  down  at  the  village  and  is  stickin' 
around  while  she  does  up  the  dinner  dishes  and 
gets  herself  ready.  Knowin'  that  Helma  is 
about  as  swift  as  a  Portchester  local  with  sleet 
on  the  tracks,  and  that  it'll  probably  be  well 
after  nine  before  she  finishes  gettin'  all  that 
taffy-colored  hair  puffed  over  her  ears,  I  asks 
Buck  in  where  it's  warm.  And  on  second 
thought  I  tows  him  in  by  the  livin'-room  fire- 

193 


194  SHORTY  MoCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

place,  wishes  a  gilt  banded  cigar  on  him  and 
makes  him  feel  like  a  reg'lar  person. 

Why  not1?  Ain't  he  Rockhurst's  star  war 
hero,  winner  of  the  D.S.M.,  and  all  that!  And 
by  workin'  up  to  it  easy,  puttin'  in  a  fool  ques- 
tion now  and  then,  I've  found  you  can  really 
pump  more  or  less  details  out  of  him  as  to  how 
we  licked  the  Huns.  You  got  to  go  at  it  just 
right  though,  or  he  '11  close  up  like  a  clam.  But 
gradually  I've  been  collectin'  a  pretty  fair  his- 
t'ry  of  the  great  war,  as  fought  by  a  certain 
machine  gun  comp'ny  whose  number  we  won't 
disturb  Mr.  Creel  by  mentioning  even  at  this 
late  date. 

Well,  on  this  special  evenin'  I  had  Bucky 
nicely  started  tellin'  about  a  little  side  show  he 
attended  at  a  place  he'd  found  for  me  on  the 
map,  but  neither  of  us  could  pronounce,  and  he's 
right  in  the  middle  of  the  most  thrillin'  part 
when  Sadie  breaks  in  on  us  sort  of  excited  and 
whispers  to  me  that  this  Mr.  Sherwood  is  in 
the  lib'ry. 

"Good!"  says  I.  "Give  him  that  subscrip- 
tion volume  of  President  Wilson's  speeches  and 
tell  him  to  read  himself  to  sleep." 

"But  he — he  seems  to  want  to  see  you  at 
once,"  says  she. 

"Eh!"  says  I.    "Edgar  Plus  does?" 

1 '  S-s-sh,  Shorty ! ' '  warns  Sadie.  "  He  '11  hear 
you." 


WHEN  EDGAR  PLUS  FORGOT     195 

1  'Do  the  poor  prune  good  if  he  did,"  says  I. 
" Can't  you  shunt  him  some  wayl" 

"No,  I  can't,"  says  Sadie  decided.  "And 
what's  more,  Shorty  McCabe,  you  ought  to  be 
ashamed  to  talk  that  way  about  Mr.  Sherwood. 
You  know  he 's  such  a  nice  man. ' ' 

That  was  just  it.  I  did  know  that  Edgar  was 
a  perfectly  nice  man.  Anyway,  I'd  heard  it  said 
times  enough.  Mainly  by  women.  Uh-huh. 
Sadie  had  even  gone  so  far  as  to  say  that  he 
was  a  regular  dear.  Mrs.  Purdy-Pell,  who  is 
about  as  rough  a  critic  of  the  safety  razor  sex 
as  you'll  find,  never  handed  him  anything  but 
kind  words.  As  for  Mrs.  Boomer-Day,  she 
cooed  and  gushed  over  him. almost  as  if  he  was 
a  pet  Pekinese.  Why,  even  Helma  couldn't 
show  Edgar  in  the  front  door  without  workin' 
up  a  mushy  grin. 

Mind  you,  I  ain't  sayin'  that  Edgar  don't  de- 
serve it  all.  I  suspect  he  does.  Nor  I  don't 
mean  either,  that  Edgar  is  one  of  these  regula- 
tion wrist-slappin'  parlor-hounds.  So  far  as 
looks  go  he  has  all  the  marks  of  a  perfectly  good 
he-man.  Even  to  the  whiskers.  Oh  yes,  his 
dark  chestnut  Vandjrke  is  about  the  richest  crop 
of  facial  herbage  our  cute  little  suburb  can  pro- 
duce. And  the  way  he  keeps  it  trimmed  is  the 
last  word  in  tonsorial  art.  A  tall,  well  built 
party,  Edgar  is,  too.  Looks  like  he  could  step 
into  the  ring  and  go  ten  rounds  any  time.  I 


196  SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

ain't  sure  but  he  could  at  that.  He  plays  golf 
some,  holds  a  big  silver  cup  to  prove  that  he's 
our  local  tennis  champ,  and  is  said  to  be  quite 
a  fencer.  Also,  while  it's  true  he  did  marry  a 
bunch  of  money  when  he  picked  out  that  meek 
little  Miss  Parsons  as  a  wife,  nobody  can  accuse 
him  of  livin'  off  her  income.  Course,  he's  only 
a  four-eyed  expert,  but  I  understand  he's  the  big 
noise  in  one  of  the  swellest  firms  of  opticians  on 
Fifth  Avenue;  one  of  these  exclusive  joints 
where  you  lug  in  a  $25  oculist 's  prescription  and 
they  set  you  back  twice  as  much  for  a  new  set 
of  panes.  Anyway,  he  pulls  in  the  coin.  You 
can  tell  that  just  by  glancin'  at  the  size  of  the 
establishment  he  keeps  up. 

Admittin'  all  that  though,  I've  never  been 
very  strong  for  Edgar.  For  one  thing  he 
always  has  that  air  of  being  so  blamed  sure  he 's 
all  right.  Not  just  chesty  or  cocky.  Nothing  so 
common  as  that.  But  he  has  a  calm,  quiet  way 
of  sizin'  you  up,  sort  of  cold  and  superior,  that 
makes  me  want  to  muss  him  every  time  he 
comes  near. 

I  expect  it's  due  to  the  way  he's  been  brought 
up,  being  the  only  boy  in  a  fam'ly  of  four  girls, 
and  having  a  mother  who's  always  petted  him. 
And  now  that  he 's  married,  with  his  own  mother 
and  wifie 's  mother  both  living  with  him,  it's  just 
the  same,  only  more  so.  Oh,  I've  see  'em  at  it. 


WHEN  EDGAR  PLUS  FORGOT     197 

When  dear  Edgar  comes  in  they  all  rush  around 
trying  to  do  things  for  him.  And  after  he's 
kissed  'em  all  in  turn,  and  presented  a  box  of 
flowers  to  one,  and  some  candy  to  the  other,  and 
a  little  trinket  to  the  third,  they  just  sit  and  gaze 
at  him  admirin',  listenin'  close  to  all  the  wise 
talk  he  cares  to  unload.  You  know  the  brand: — 
the  fireside  hero  type.  That's  why  I  call  him 
Edgar  Plus. 

The  most  maddenin'  part  of  it  all  is  that  you 
can't  seem  to  pick  any  flaws  in  Edgar.  "Such 
a  dear,  thoughtful  man,"  says  Mrs.  Boomer- 
Day.  Yes,  I  got  to  admit  that  he  is.  He's 
always  pattin'  wifie  on  the  cheek  and  tellin'  her 
how  nice  her  hair  looks,  and  what  he  don't  do 
for  those  old  ladies  wouldn't  be  worth  doing. 
He  don't  smoke,  or  drink,  and  I  couldn't  imag- 
ine him  rippin'  off  a  cuss  word  or  two,  even  if 
he  'd  hit  his  thumb  with  a  hammer.  Almost  too 
good  to  be  true,  Edgar  is. 

The  trouble  with  that  kind  is  that  they  can't 
help  remembering  it.  You  can't  blame  'em  so 
much.  If  I  was  told  every  night  and  mornin' 
what  a  wonder  I  was  maybe  I'd  get  that  way 
myself.  I'd  be  playin'  up  to  the  part,  the  way 
Edgar  always  is.  Makes  'em  soft  in  the  head. 
You  know ;  the  little  things  they  do  get  thrown 
up  big. 

So  I  wanted  to  duck  Edgar  just  then.    But 


198     SHOETY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

when  Sadie  gets  on  that  tone,  and  sort  of  nar- 
rows her  eyelids  there's  only  one  wise  thing  to 
do — compromise. 

"Oh,  well!"  says  I.  "If  it's  going  to  break 
anybody's  heart,  chase  him  in  here." 

I  couldn't  imagine  what  it  would  be  this  time. 
"When  he  called  on  me  last  it  was  a  case  of 
helpin'  him  chase  off  a  stray  cur,  part  bull  and 
part  several  other  breeds,  that  had  wandered 
in  and  was  tryin'  to  make  a  meal  off  Pom-Pom, 
the  little  bunch  of  white  wool  with  pink  eyes 
that  he'd  given  Mrs.  Sherwood  for  a  birthday 
present.  And  when  I'd  pried  the  pup  out  of  the 
near-bull's  teeth,  Edgar  had  lugged  him  off  tri- 
umphant to  have  his  women-folk  tell  him  how 
brave  and  strong  he  was. 

"Well,"  says  I,  as  he  comes  in,  "it  ain't  Pom- 
Pom  again,  is  it  ? " 

"Yes,"  says  he,  breathin'  a  bit  gaspy,  "it 
is." 

And  accordin'  to  his  tale  the  fam'ly  pet  had 
been  stolen  early  that  morning.  He'd  been 
missin'  all  day,  and  soon  after  dinner  two  rough 
lookin'  characters  had  shown  up  askin'  if  it  was 
so  that  a  hundred  dollars  reward  had  been  of- 
fered. Yes,  it  was.  At  which  they'd  produced 
Pom-Pom,  and  Edgar  was  in  the  act  of  diggin' 
up  the  cash  when  one  of  the  maids  whispered 
that  she'd  seen  this  same  pair  hangin'  around 
the  house  before  breakfast. 


WHEN  EDGAR  PLUS  FORGOT     199 

"Oh,  yes,"  says  I.  "The  old  game.  And 
you  stalled  'em  along  while  someone  'phoned 
for  the  police,  eh?" 

"No,"  says  Edgar;  "I  didn't  care  for  any 
possible  trouble  or  publicity.  Our  chief  of 
police  is  such  a  crude  person,  you  know.  I 
merely  decoyed  them  to  the  garage  and  locked 
them  in." 

"What  was  the  grand  idea  in  that?"  I  de- 
mands. 

"Why,"  says  Edgar,  "I  thought  that  with 
your  assistance,  and  possibly  that  of  your  sol- 
dier friend  here,  we  might  overawe  them  and 
induce  them  to  give  up  Pom-Pom  without  any 
disagreeable  scene." 

"Huh!"  says  I.    "You  did,  eh?" 

That's  Edgar  to  the  life.  He  don't  want  to 
get  mixed  up  in  anything  rough  or  messy.  He's 
played  the  parlor  hero  so  long  that  the  very 
thought  of  having  to  speak  harsh  to  somebody, 
or  maybe  being  rung  in  on  an  act  that  don't  call 
for  pearl  gray  gloves,  gets  him  chilly  along  the 
spine.  Course,  if  he  can  shift  the  bare  knuckle 
stuff  onto  any  low-brow  friend  like  me,  for  in- 
stance, that's  another  matter.  And  as  I'm  dop- 
ing out  his  little  scheme  I  gets  this  happy  hunch. 

"Oh,  very  well!"  I  goes  on.  "Maybe  we'll 
step  over  and  help  you  throw  a  scare  into  your 
pair  of  dog  snatchers  pretty  soon ;  say  in  about 
half  an  hour  or  so." 


200     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

Edgar  gasps.  ' '  But,  my  dear  McCabe, ' '  says 
he,  "you  don't  seem  to  realize  the  situation. 
Why,  I  have  two  desperate  characters  shut  in 
my  garage,  with  no  one  but  women  around  the 
place.  I  have  already  been  through  rather  a 
tense  scene  with  them — they  used  perfectly  vile 
language  when  they  found  themselves  locked  in 
— and  my  nerves  are  somewhat  unstrung.  If  I 
should  go  back  now  alone " 

"Sump'n  fierce,  eh,  Bucky?"  says  I,  with  a 
grin  at  ex-Corporal  Kinney.  "He's  got  two 
young  toughs  shut  up  nice  and  safe  in  a  cement 
garage  and  if  he  keeps  'em  there  much  longer 
they're  apt  to  say,  'Oh,  darn  it,'  or  something 
when  he  goes  back.  Almost  enough  to  make 
your  blood  curdle,  ain't  it?" 

Edgar  pinks  up  at  that.  "But  I  assure  you, 
McCabe,"  he  protests,  "that  they  are  vicious 
looking  characters,  who  would  be  capable 
of " 

"Oh,  sure!"  I  breaks  in.  "They  might 
threaten  to  bite  Pom-Pom's  tail.  But  the  fact 
is,  Edgar,  you  butted  in  here  just  as  the  Cor- 
poral was  right  in  the  middle  of  relatin'  one  of 
his  little  adventures  over  in  France.  Suppose 
we  let  him  finish?  Let's  see,  Bucky,  you'd  got 
to  where  you  and  Slum  Dorsett  had  got  lost 
while  out  on  a  scoutin'  expedition  and  you'd 
stumbled  bang  into  a  little  party  of  Huns  that 
was  workin'  a  machine  gun.  Slum  had  slipped 


WHEN  EDGAR  PLUS  FORGOT     201 

on  a  wet  log  and  gone  slidin'  right  into  the 
midst  of  'em  and  then — tell  us  what  happened 
next,  Corporal." 

"Aw,  it  wa'n't  much,"  says  Bucky. 

"I  know,"  says  I,  winkin'  at  him  encouragin'. 
"Merely  one  of  them  little  affairs  that  you  used 
to  work  up  a  supper  appetite  on.  But  you  ain't 
going  to  leave  a  tale  like  that  half  finished. 
There  was  seven  Huns,  wasn't  there?" 

'  *  Only  five, ' '  says  Bucky,  ' '  and  I  expect  they 
was  about  as  much  jolted  to  see  us  as  we  was 
to  find  them.  No  gettin'  away,  though.  So  I 
had  to  wade  in.  Too  close  for  shootin'  but  I 
had  the  old  prong  on  the  gun  and  I  takes  a 
flyin'  leap  right  onto  the  back  of  one  Fritzie,  at 
the  same  time  stickin'  the  steel  into  another. 
It  was  more  or  less  luck,  o '  course,  for  I  got  him 
fair,  right  in  th'  guts.  Next  thing  I  knew, 
though,  the  other  three  was  onto  me  and  we 
went  millin'  around  there  something  scanda- 
lous; clubbin',  jabbin'  and  gruntin'.  It's  funny 
how  few  remarks  are  passed  at  a  time  like  that. 
Nobody  says  a  word.  Just  as  well  maybe,  for 
we  couldn't  have  savvied  each  other.  And  it's 
odd  how  well  acquainted  you  get  in  a  short  time. 
Say,  I'll  bet  if  I  was  an  artist  I  could  draw  a 
picture  of  each  of  'em,  even  now.  One  was  a 
pop-eyed  little  runt  with  a  nick  in  his  left  ear  and 
a  broken  front  tooth.  Some  scrapper  he  was, 
too.  Shifty  on  his  feet.  The  other  squareheads 


202     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

was  big  husks,  but  pie-faced  and  logy  movin'. 
Seemed  to  be  sort  of  dazed.  Still,  it  was  one  of 
them  that  gave  me  the  clip  side  of  the  head  with 
a  trench  spade  and  I  went  groggy.  As  I 
slumped  into  the  mud  with  my  head  in  an  open 
ammunition  box  the  little  Fritzie  unlimbers  a 
wicked  lookin'  trench  knife  and  piles  in  im- 
petuous. 

"He  was  just  lungin'  for  my  throat  when 
there  comes  this  bang.  Seems  Slum  has  got 
into  action  and  taken  a  chance  with  a  grenade. 
Lucky  I  was  underneath,  for  it  does  mess  up  my 
little  friend  something  amazin'.  Clear  blew  him 
to  bits,  it  did.  I  was  sprayed  with  parts  of  him. 
And  one  of  the  big  Huns  had  an  arm  blown  off. 
The  one  I'd  jumped  on  came  to  life  about  then 
so  it  was  still  fifty-fifty  and  we  begun  the  party 
all  over  again,  slippin'  and  slidin'  around,  hit- 
tin'  out  with  whatever  came  handy,  clinchin' 
and  breakin'  loose,  but  always  doin'  as  much 
damage  as  we  could.  Once  I  was  sure  he  'd  got 
me,  for  he'd  picked  up  my  gun  and  was  swingin' 
it  on  me;  but  I  managed  to  duck  and  grab  him 
by  the  legs,  and  as  I  came  up  on  the  other  side 
I  gets  hold  of  the  spade  and  while  he's  on  his 
knees  I  splits  his  thick  skull  clear  to  the  eyes. 
Which  leaves  only  one  Hun  in  action  and  I  finds 
Slum  kneelin'  on  him  chokin'  his  tongue  out. 
All  that  stiff  needed  was  a  little  jab  through  the 
ribs,  and  then  we  starts  to  take  down  the  ma- 


WHEN  EDGAR  PLUS  FORGOT     203 

chine  gun  when  we  hears  a  relief  party  comin' 
through  the  woods  back  of  us,  and  you  can  bet 
we  slid  out  of  that  and  down  the  hill  without 
waitin'  to  collect  any  souvenirs." 

I'd  been  watchin'  Edgar  out  of  the  corner  of 
my  eye  durin'  most  of  this  and  it  sure  was  en- 
tertainin'  to  follow  his  motions.  First  off  he 
could  only  shudder  now  and  then,  as  Bucky  got 
too  realistic,  but  pretty  soon  he  forgets  that  and 
by  the  time  Bucky  finishes  Edgar  is  sittin'  on 
the  edge  of  his  chair  with  his  fingers  twitchin'. 

"  You— you  killed  all  five  of  them?"  he  finally 
asks. 

"Well,  we  left  'em  interesting  stretcher  cases, 
anyway,"  says  Bucky. 

' '  Fancy  that ! "  says  Edgar.  ' « Why,  both  of 
you  must  have  been  trained  athletes." 

"Yes,"  says  I.  "Bucky  used  to  be  our  local 
pool  champ.  As  for  this  Slum  party — what  was 
he,  Bucky,  before  they  turned  him  loose  on  the 
Huns?" 

"Slum?"  says  he.  "Oh,  he  was  choppin' 
tickets  on  the  'L'  when  the  draft  got  him." 

Edgar  just  stares  bug-eyed.  "I — I  don't 
understand,"  says  he.  "I  suppose  when  you 
got  back  to  your  company  your  commanding  of- 
ficer complimented  you  for  your  bravery  and 
recommended  you  for  a  medal  or  something  of 
the  sort." 

* '  The  Loot  ? ' '  says  Bucky.    ' '  Nah !    He  had  a 


grouch  on  that  afternoon  'cause  he  hadn't 
pulled  anything  from  the  mail  in  two  weeks. 
He  bawls  us  out  for  bein'  late  and  when  I  starts 
tellin'  him  about  the  Huns  he  says  to  keep  that 
bull  stuff  to  chill  the  spine  of  some  *  Y'  secretary 
when  I  go  back  on  leave.  If  we'd  had  the  gun 
or  sump'n  I  could  have  made  the  stiff  eat  his 
words;  as  it  was" — here  Bucky  hunches  his 
shoulders  and  rekindles  his  cigar  stub. 

"To  be  continued  in  our  next,"  says  I. 
''And  now,  Edgar,  we'll  trot  over  and  help  you 
dictate  your  fourteen  peace  points  to  them  pup 
snatchers." 

He  don't  have  much  to  say  as  we  walks  along. 
Seems  kind  of  subdued  and  thoughtful.  My 
guess  is  that  he's  framin'  up  some  deep 
strategy  which  would  let  him  stay  in  and  quiet 
the  women  folks  while  we  rescue  the  dog  and 
run  the  rough  necks  off  the  place.  So  I'm  a  bit 
puzzled  when  we  get  there  to  have  Edgar  walk 
straight  to  the  side  door  of  the  garage,  produce 
a  bunch  of  keys,  and  plan  out  something  quite 
different. 

"May  I  ask  you  two  gentlemen  to  stand 
here,"  says  he,  "so  that  if  I  should  be — er — • 
unsuccessful,  you  could  intercept  anyone  who 
came  out." 

"  Eh  ? "  says  I.  * '  You  ain  't  plannin '  to  tackle 
'em  both — alone  ? ' ' 


WHEN  EDGAB  PLUS  FORGOT     205 

•'Not  precisely,"  says  Edgar.  "I  hope  to 
avoid  any  violence.  I  wish  to  submit  a  proposal 
to  them  which  I  have  no  doubt  they  will  accept." 

"Ah,  I  wouldn't  waste  any  breath  on  that 
pair,"  says  I.  "Just  shoo  'em  out  and  we'll  do 
the  rest." 

"If  you  will  permit  me,  however,"  says 
Edgar,  and  with  that  blamed  if  he  don't  walk 
right  in,  turn  on  the  electric  light  and  shut  the 
door  behind  him. 

Well,  we  couldn't  hear  all  that  was  said.  It 
sounds  like  Edgar  had  started  in  his  mild,  polite 
way  to  put  his  proposition.  The  next  we  heard 
was  a  scrappy  retort,  a  scuff  of  feet  on  the 
cement  floor,  a  ky-yi  from  the  dog,  and  then  a 
wild  scramble  mixed  with  dull  thuds. 

"Huh!"  says  Bucky.  "Listens  like  some- 
body had  started  sump  'n. ' ' 

"That's  right,"  says  I,  and  I  expect  I  was 
grinnin'  some.  "But  Edgar's  orders  are  to 
stay  outside  until  something  comes  through  the 
door." 

"It's  comin'!"  says  Bucky  as  a  heavy  bang 
bends  the  panels. 

"Not  yet,"  says  I,  "but  I  suspect  Edgar 
was  chucked  this  way.  I  don't  know  but  a  little 
of  that  will  do  him  good,  too.  Woof!  I'll  bet 
somebody  got  jarred  then.  And  there  goes  an- 
other!" 


206     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

"Aw,  let's  kick  in,"  protests  Bucky. 
"  They  're  two  to  one,  you  know.  Zing!  hear 
that  smash?  Open  up,  Shorty." 

"All  right,"  says  I.  "Course,  it's  Edgar's 
party,  but  if  you  say — hey,  what's  the  matter 
with  this  fool  lock?" 

It  took  me  half  a  minute  or  so  to  discover 
which  way  to  turn  the  key  on  the  spring  lock, 
and  meanwhile  the  sounds  from  inside  kept  get- 
tin'  messier  and  messier.  But  at  last  I  got  the 
catch  loose  and  we  rushes  in,  ready  to  pry  'em 
off  from  Edgar  or  sweep  up  the  pieces. 

But  say,  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  the  view 
that  met  us.  Talk  about  your  movie  rough  house 
scenes  where  they  flash  the  big  punch  act !  Here 
is  Edgar,  with  his  hair  tousled,  his  coat  ripped 
up  the  back  and  one  trouser  leg  split;  but  he's 
standin'  steady  on  his  pins  and  is  just  steamin' 
in  a  peppy  left  hander  that  lands  square  be- 
tween the  eyes  of  a  big  husk  who's  runnin'  in 
like  he  was  anxious  to  stop  it.  He  does,  too,  and 
proceeds  to  crumple  up  on  the  floor  with  a  deep 
grunt  that  told  mighty  eloquent  how  he'd  had 
enough. 

Over  in  the  corner  is  the  other  bird,  wabblin ' 
back  and  forth  on  his  hands  and  knees  with  the 
claret  leakin'  from  his  bugle  like  he  was  a  stuck 
pig.  He's  quite  a  husk  too,  but  there 's  no  doubt 
about  his  being  all  in.  One  of  his  lamps  is 
swellin'  out  lovely  and  by  the  looks  of  his 


WHEN  EDGAB,  PLUS  FORGOT     207 

clothes  I  should  judge  that  he'd  been  used  as  a 
floor  swab. 

"For  the  love  of  Pete,  Edgar,"  says  I, 
"whatever  have  you  been  doin'  to  these  two 
gents!" 

"I — I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  says  Edgar,  a 
little  puffy.  "It — it  all  happened  so  ab- 
ruptly. ' ' 

' '  I  should  say  it  had, ' '  says  I.  ' '  And  I  take  it 
you  didn't  have  time  to  get  over  that  proposi- 
tion of  yours?" 

I  ' '  No, ' '  says  Edgar.  * '  They  proved  to  be  quite 
unreasonable  from  the  very  first,  so  I — I  was 
compelled  to — well,  as  you  see. ' '  . 

1 ' Uh-huh ! ' '  says  I.  "It 's  what  I 'd  call  a  fin- 
ished job,  if  you  ask  me." 

"  Ab-so-lutely,"  chimes  in  Bucky  enthusiastic. 
"And  you  sure  didn't  waste  any  time  on  it." 

"I  fear,"  says  Edgar,  tryin'  to  smooth  out 
his  hair,  * '  that  when  they  became  so  abusive  I 
quite  forgot  myself  for  the  moment." 

"Take  it  from  me  though,"  says  I,  "these 
two  birds  are  goin'  to  remember  you  for  years 
to  come." 

We  didn't  have  to  do  any  urgin'  to  get  'em 
to  clear  out.  When  I  swung  open  the  front  door 
they  scrambled  through  it  and  off  into  the  dark 
like  a  couple  of  rats  being  let  out  of  a  trap. 
And  after  we'd  gathered  up  Pom-Pom  from 
where  he  was  crouchin'  in  a  corner,  and  shaken 


208     SHOETY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

Edgar  hearty  by  the  mitt,  Bucky  and  I  trails 
back  to  the  house. 

"Say,"  remarks  Bucky  thoughtfully, 
"wouldn't  that  guy  have  been  a  bear  in  a 
moppin'  up  squad?" 

"I  guess  you've  stated  it,"  says  I. 

"What  was  it  you  called  him  when  he  first 
showed  up?"  asks  Bucky.  "Edgar  what?" 

"Edgar  Plus,"  says  I.  "And  I  got  to  admit 
it's  a  closer  fit  than  I  thought." 


xm 

SHORTY   ANSWERS   A   HAIL 

FROM  some  of  the  calls  I  get  you'd  'most  think 
I  had  a  sign  out  readin'  "  Shorty  McCabe, 
Cheerupodist. ' '  Take  this  case  where  they  send 
the  limousine  to  cart  me  way  up  above  Tarry- 
town  where  Alton  I.  Frazer  has  built  a  near- 
Moorish  palace  on  top  of  a  hill. 

" What's  the  idea?"  I  asks  Miss  Edith  when 
she  rings  me  on  the  long  distance.  "  Shall  I 
bring  up  a  set  of  gloves  or  some  gym  appa- 
ratus?" 

"Certainly  not,"  says  she,  kind  of  gaspy. 
"Why,  poor  daddy's  being  wheeled  about  in  a 
chair.  He's  a  very  sick  man." 

"Say,"  I  breaks  in,  "are  you  sure  you've  got 
the  right  number?  This  is  Professor  McCabe 's 
Physical  Culture  Studio,  you  know,  and " 

"Yes,  I  understand,"  says  Miss  Edith.  "I 
suppose  I'm  perfectly  silly,  but  I  just  want  you 
to  come  up  and  talk  to  him  a  little  while.  You  see, 
he  hasn't  seen  a  soul  for  the  past  five  weeks  but 
doctors  and  nurses.  We  Ve  had  four  specialists 
and  each  one  has  discovered  something  dreadful 
the  matter  with  him,  every  time  something  new, 

209 


210     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

and  he  is  so  discouraged  that  I — I "Well, 

I'm  desperate,  that's  all.    I've  never  seen  him 

give  up  this  way  and  I  just  thought Oh,  I 

don't  know  precisely,  but  he  used  to  seem  so 
cheerful  when  he  was  going  regularly  to  your 
place,  Professor,  and  if  you  could  only " 

' '  Sure, "  says  I.    "I '11  come. ' ' 

Not  that  I  thought  it  would  be  any  use,  but 
Old  Alibi  Frazer  had  tossed  over  to  me  many  a 
fat  check  in  his  day  and  I'd  be  a  poor  sort  of 
prune  to  turn  down  one  of  my  old  reg  'lars  when 
he  was  about  to  take  the  count,  wouldn  't  I ! 

I  expect  you  know  more  or  less  about  him 
yourself,  but  whether  you  rate  him  as  a  high 
class  financier  or  as  a  first-class  crook  who  has 
dodged  jail  depends  a  good  deal  on  how  much 
income  tax  you  pay.  As  for  me,  I  ain't  sure. 
Why,  when  this  quiet  talkin'  little  old  guy,  with 
the  mild  blue  eyes  and  the  high  broad  shoulders, 
first  showed  up  at  the  studio,  I  had  him  placed 
as  some  up-state  banker  who  was  spendin'  the 
winter  in  town  because  daughter  was  havin'  her 
voice  trained  to  hold  high  C  or  something. 
Then  I  noticed  that  heavy  chin  of  his  and  the 
solid  set  to  his  jaw,  so  I  wasn't  so  much  sur- 
prised to  find  out  that  he  was  the  big  traction 
plute. 

Uh-huh.  Suburban  trolleys  are  his  special- 
ties. He  collects  'em  like  anyone  else  would  col- 
lect liberty  bond  posters,  or  pewter  mugs,  or  old 


SHORTY  ANSWERS  A  HAIL       211 

campaign  buttons.  He  '11  get  his  eye  on  a  good 
payin'  line  that's  somehow  escaped  being  gob- 
bled up  by  some  syndicate,  and  the  next  thing 
the  directors  know  the  man  who's  votin'  the 
majority  stock  at  the  annual  meetin'  will  be 
Alton  I.  Frazer.  Then  things  begin  to  happen. 
There'll  be  a  new  issue,  a  second  or  third  mort- 
gage will  be  clapped  on,  the  bonds  will  be  jug- 
gled mysterious,  the  sinkin '  fund  will  disappear 
and  most  likely  the  courts  will  be  asked  to  ap- 
point a  receiver.  Somehow  though  he  will  come 
out  of  the  deal  with  a  pot  of  money  whose  ab- 
sence doesn't  show  anywhere  on  the  books,  and 
the  local  capitalists  who  financed  the  road  at  the 
start  will  be  wonderin'  what  hit  'em.  Then 
maybe  there  '11  be  a  reorganization  and  another 
feeder  will  be  added  to  the  Frazer  system. 

Still,  I  must  say  he's  always  been  fair  and 
friendly  with  me.  I  got  so  I  didn't  even  lock 
up  the  safe  when  he  came  in  and  after  I'd  helped 
him  get  rid  of  a  bad  case  of  nervous  indigestion 
he  sure  expressed  his  gratitude  in  something  be- 
sides kind  words.  In  fact,  we've  been  almost 
chummy  ever  since.  So  when  the  French  chauf- 
feur comes  up  and  says  how  the  carriage  waits, 
or  words  to  that  effect,  I  turns  the  Studio  over 
to  Swifty  Joe  for  the  day  and  takes  this  twenty 
mile  drive  up  into  Westchester  County. 

I  admit  I  was  some  jarred  at  the  change  in 
the  old  boy.  Why,  it  hadn't  been  more'n  eight 


212     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

months  since  he'd  dropped  into  the  Studio  last, 
smokin'  one  of  them  slim  panatellas  and  handin' 
me  his  usual  line  of  quiet  josh.  And  here  he  is 
humped  over  in  the  rollin'  chair  with  his  mouth 
corners  sagged  and  a  complexion  like  the  inside 
of  an  ash  tray. 

"Well,  well!"  says  I,  lookin'  him  over. 
"Who's  been  kiddin'  you  into  thinkin'  you're 
an  invalid?" 

He  shakes  his  head  and  tries  to  pull  that  old 
twisty  smile  of  his.  "I'm  afraid  they're  right 
this  time,  Shorty,"  says  he.  "I — I'm  on  the 
scrap  heap,  I  guess." 

"Gwan!"  says  I.  "You  got  a  right  to  an- 
other guess,  ain't  you?  Been  having  some  spe- 
cialists look  you  over,  eh!" 

He  nods. 

"Heart  specialist,  I'll  bet,"  I  goes  on;  "and 
they  found  your  blood  pump  all  out  of  whack, 
didn't  they?" 

He  admits  they  did;  also  that  stomach  spe- 
cialists had  found  fault  with  his  plumbing,  and 
so  on. 

"Yes,"  says  I,  "and  if  you'd  had  a  foot 
expert  in  he'd  told  you  how  you  had  fallen 
arches,  while  a  lung  shark  would  have  insisted 
that  your  pipes  were  clogged.  Sure  you  ain't 
got  a  touch  of  house-maid's  knee,  or  boll  weevils 
in  your  hair?" 

"As  I'm  feeling  just  now,  Shorty,"  says  he, 


SHORTY  ANSWERS  A  HAIL       213 

"I  wouldn't  deny  harboring  any  ailment  they 
might  name. ' ' 

"I  expect  theyVe  made  you  lay  off  busi- 
ness?" says  I. 

"I  am  just  winding  up  everything,"  says  he. 
"I'm  allowed  half  a  day  with  my  secretary. 
Here  he  comes  now.  Don't  go  away.  I  have 
no  more  business  secrets.  Well,  Staples?" 

Mr.  Staples  is  a  slick-haired,  cold-eyed  young 
gent  who  proceeds  to  spread  out  his  papers  and 
make  his  reports.  He  fires  facts  and  figures  at 
Mr.  Frazer  as  careless  as  if  he  was  talking  into 
a  machine,  and  with  sort  of  a  bored  air  that's  as 
much  as  to  say :  * '  Oh,  you  don't  count  any  more, 
so  what's  the  use?"  They're  some  figures  too, 
relatin'  how  the  dividends  on  this  block  of  pre- 
ferred amount  to  so  many  hundred  thousand; 
how  such  a  deal  has  been  closed  at  a  net  profit 
of  half  a  million,  and  where  another  little 
scheme  has  been  pulled  off  that  will  give  control 
of  a  new  line. 

But  Old  Alibi  just  sits  there  with  his  chin 
down,  noddin'  now  and  then  at  some  item,  but 
mainly  drummin'  his  fingers  restless  on  the 
chair  arm.  Near  as  I  could  judge,  the  Frazer 
system  was  workin'  like  a  mint  runnin'  double 
shifts,  and  any  one  of  them  items  would  have 
had  me  doing  a  war  dance.  He  don't  seem  to 
work  up  any  enthusiasm  though.  Not  a  bit. 

Finally  Mr.  Staples  announces  casual:  "Oh, 


214     SHOETY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

by  the  way,  that  Waterbury-Pawtucket  enter- 
prise still  hangs  fire.  I  think  though  that  those 
people  are  about  to  come  to  terms.  Their  Mr. 
Atkins  is  here  now." 

' 'Si  Atkins?  Here?"  asks  Mr.  Frazer,  sort 
of  rousin'  up.  " What '11  he  take  now!" 

"He  wouldn't  say,"  says  Staples.  " Insists 
on  seeing  you  personally.  I  told  him  it  couldn't 
be  done,  but  he 's  still  waiting. ' ' 

1  'Huh!"  grunts  Old  Alibi.  "Well,  you  go 

down  and  tell  him,  Staples No,  I  can't 

spare  you  now.  Shorty,  perhaps  you  wouldn't 
mind  shooing  the  old  rascal  off  the  premises. 
Tell  him  I'm  so  sick  I  don't  care  what  he  does 
with  his  old  road.  Will  you  I ' ' 

It's  a  new  line  for  me,  but  I  wanders  down 
stairs  and  into  the  big  lib'ry,  where  I  finds  this 
shifty-eyed  old  boy  with  the  white  deacon 
whiskers  sittin'  anxious  on  the  edge  of  his  chair. 
And  before  I  can  get  in  my  remarks  he  demands 
if  I  represent  Mr.  Frazer. 

"Why,  yes,  in  a  way,"  says  I,  "but— 

"Then  tell  him,"  breaks  in  Mr.  Atkins,  "that 
if  he  will  only  listen  to  a  reasonable  propo- 
sition, we  are  ready  to  compromise.  Of  course 
we  have  secured  an  injunction  preventing  him 
from  interfering  with  the  extension  of  our  line 
across  his "  And  then  I  cuts  in  myself. 

"Excuse  me,"  says  I,  "but  you  might  as  well 
save  your  breath.  If  it  was  a  plot  in  a  ceme- 


SHORTY  ANSWERS  A  HAIL       215 

tery  you  wanted  to  sell,  Mr.  Frazer  might  do 
business  with  you.  As  it  is,  there's  nothing 
doing. ' ' 

"Wha-a-t?"  says  Mr.  Atkins,  kind  of  gaspy. 

f '  Mr.  Frazer  is  too  sick  a  man  to  care  whether 
you  sell  him  your  trolley  line  or  junk  it, ' '  says  I. 

"Sick?"  says  Mr.  Atkins.  "Why,  I  hadn't 
heard.  Sick,  eh?  Too  bad!" 

And  say,  he  looked  about  as  sorry  as  an  ex- 
doughboy  just  landin'  from  a  transport. 
"Well,  well!"  he  goes  on.  "In  that  case  I — I 
think  we  have  no  offer  to  make. ' ' 

"Oh,  you  haven't,  eh?"  says  I,  sort  of 
prickin'  up  my  ears.  His  sudden  shift  had  got 
me  kind  of  curious. 

"No,"  says  he,  real  prompt.  "No  offer  of 
any  kind.  And  I  think  I  will  merely  express  a 
hope  for  the  eventual  recovery  of  Mr.  Frazer 
and " 

"Just  a  minute,"  says  I,  as  he's  reachin'  for 
his  hat.  "Frazer  ought  to  know  how  bad  you 
feel  about  his  being  sick,  and  he  might  have 
some  word  to  send  back,  after  all.  I'll  hang 
your  hat  in  the  hall. ' ' 

I  didn't.  I  took  the  hard  boiled  lid  upstairs 
with  me  and  showed  it  to  Old  Alibi.  He  stares 
at  it  puzzled. 

'  *  Belongs  to  your  friend  Atkins, ' '  says  I.  "I 
just  lugged  it  along  so  he  wouldn't  weep  it  full 
of  sympathy  on  account  of  your  being  so  sick. ' ' 


216     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

Frazer  gawps  at  me  like  he  thought  I'd  gone 
crazy  in  the  head.  ''What  triple-plated  tom- 
myrot  is  this?"  he  snorts.  "Old  Si  Atkins  has 
no  more  sympathy  in  his  system  than  a  dry 
lemon  and  personally  he's  as  fond  of  me  as  a 
cat  is  of  swimming  in  the  pond. ' ' 

I  shakes  my  head.  * '  Must  be  some  mistake, ' ' 
says  I.  "He  seemed  all  cut  up  when  I  told  him 
how  bad  off  you  were. ' ' 

"Oh,  he  did,  eh?"  says  Frazer.  "Enough 
so  he  was  willing  to  sell  his  road  at  any 
terms?" 

"Affects  him  just  the  opposite,"  says  I.  "He 
wouldn't  think  about  botherin'  you  with  buyin' 
it  now." 

Alibi  Frazer  rouses  up  at  that.  He 
straightens  back  in  the  wheel  chair  with  his  chin 
up  and  a  queer  flicker  coming  into  them  mild 
blue  eyes.  "The  old  fox!"  says  he.  "What's 
his  game,  anyway?" 

"That's  all  he  said,"  says  I.  "I  take  it  he's 
too  tender-hearted  to  worry  a  sick  man  with 
business." 

"Bah!"  says  Frazer.  "You  don't  know  the 
old  pirate.  He's  got  something  up  his  sleeve 
and  by  the  seven  saints  I'm  going  to  find  out 
what  it  is  before  he  leaves  this  house. ' ' 

"Oh,  I  say,  Mr.  Frazer,"  protests  the  secre- 
tary, "you  know  your  physicians  have  abso- 
lutely forbidden  you  to " 


SHORTY  ANSWERS  A  HAIL       217 

"Physicians  be  blowed!"  says  Old  Alibi. 
"Shorty,  bring  Atkins  up  here." 

"Just  as  you  say,"  says  I. 

I  had  to  chuckle,  too,  at  the  way  my  little 
hunch  was  workin'  out.  He'd  shaken  the  slump 
out  of  his  shoulders  and  them  stubby  fingers  of 
his  was  bunched  vigorous. 

"You're  in  luck,"  I  tells  Atkins.  "Mr. 
Frazer  happens  to  be  a  bit  easier  for  the  time 
being  and  I  expect  a  little  chat  with  an  old 
friend  like  you  will  do  him  good." 

That  almost  gives  him  a  chokin'  spell.  "But 
-. — I "  he  begins. 

"Ah,  come  along,"  says  I.  "He's  sent  for 
you  special." 

And  when  I've  lined  the  two  of  'em  up  facin' 
each  other  it  sure  is  interestin'  to  watch  their 
motions.  Old  Alibi  has  got  a  grip  on  himself 
once  more  and  gives  Atkins  the  smooth  hail, 
while  Si  acts  about  as  comfortable  as  a  mouse 
being  introduced  to  a  tomcat. 

"Sorry  you  find  me  laid  up  this  way,"  says 
Frazer,  "but  I  suppose  I'm  down  and  out. 
That's  what  my  fool  doctors  tell  me,  anyway." 

"I — I  was  greatly  shocked  to  hear  it,"  says 
Atkins. 

"No  doubt,"  says  Frazer.  "You  see,  I 
haven't  advertised  the  fact — might  be  bad  for 
the  market.  Not  that  I  have  much  interest  in 
such  affairs  now.  I  'm  just  winding  things  up. ' ' 


218     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

"Y-e-s?"  says  Atkins,  glancin'  shrewd  at  the 
secretary. 

"So  you'll  pardon  me  for  dropping  that 
Waterbury-Pawtucket  deal,"  goes  on  Frazer. 
"I  hear,  though,  that  you  have  concluded  not  to 
sell." 

Atkins  nods. 

"Going  to  develop  the  property  yourself, 
eh?"  suggests  Frazer. 

"We — we — we  might,"  says  Atkins,  squirm- 
in'  uncomfortable  in  his  chair. 

"I  guessed  as  much,"  says  Frazer.  "Let's 
see,  that  injunction  of  yours  has  about  two 
weeks  to  run,  hasn't  it?  You  could  put  in  that 
crossing  if  you  made  a  rush  job  of  it,  couldn't 
you?" 

For  a  second  the  old  boy  colors  up  like  a 
kid  that's  been  nabbed  robbin'  a  cherry  tree,  but 
all  of  a  sudden  his  backbone  stiffens,  his  eyelids 
narrow  and  he  shoves  his  chin  out. 

"Yes,  Frazer,  we  could, ' '  says  he.  '  *  It  would 
save  us  from  having  to  turn  our  franchise  over 
to  you  at  your  figure,  and  as  we  are  fortunate 
enough  to  have  the  courts  on  our  side  this 
time " 

"Atkins,"  breaks  in  Frazer,  "how  long  do 
you  think  it  would  take  me  to  shoot  that  injunc- 
tion of  yours  so  full  of  holes  that  it  would  look 
like  a  screen  door?" 


SHORTY  ANSWERS  A  HAIL       219 

"More  than  two  weeks,  Frazer,"  the  old  boy 
raps  back  at  him. 

"And  meantime,"  says  Frazer,  "you  would 
have Eh?  What  the  deuce?" 

He  stops  and  glares  up  at  the  nurse,  who  has 
come  in  with  a  glass  and  a  spoon. 

"It's  the  half  hour,  sir,"  says  the  nurse. 

"That's  so,"  says  Old  Alibi,  takin'  the  dose 
meek  and  slump  in'  back  into  his  chair  once 
more.  * '  Never  mind  me,  Atkins.  Go  ahead — if 
you  can." 

I  thought  I  heard  Mr.  Atkins  sigh  kind  of 
relieved  at  that  and  he  lost  no  time  in  makin' 
his  getaway. 

"Pardon  me,  sir,"  says  the  secretary,  "but  I 
think  our  time  is  up  for  to-day." 

"Well,  it  isn't,  not  by  a  long  shot,"  says 
Frazer.  *  *  You  heard  what  that  old  robber  had 
to  say,  didn't  you?  But  perhaps  it  hasn't 
dawned  on  you  just  what  he  means  to  do.  I'll 
tell  you,  Staples.  Now  that  he  thinks  I'm  out 
of  the  game  he  means  to  put  in  that  grade 
crossing  I've  been  blocking  off  for  the  last  five 
years,  which  would  force  us  to  buy  at  his  terms. 
But  he's  wrong,  Staples.  I'm  not  quite  out  of 
it.  I  have  a  sneaking  idea  there's  one  more 
fight  left  in  me  yet.  Anyway,  we  '11  see.  Have 
our  bags  packed,  order  the  car,  and  wire  Burns 
to  meet  me  in  Waterbury  to-night  at  7.30." 

For  a  minute  Staples  gawps  at  him  with  his 


220      SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

mouth  open.  Then  he  smiles  sort  of  conde- 
scendin'  and  shakes  his  head.  "You  forget 
your  condition,  Mr.  Frazer,"  says  he.  "It — it 
would  be  suicide.  I  could  not  consent  to  assist 
you  in  anything  so  utterly  rash. ' ' 

"You  couldn't,  eh?"  snorts  Frazer.  "Then 
you're  fired.  Understand  that?  Get  out." 

The  secretary  shrugs  his  shoulders,  gathers 
up  his  papers,  and  trickles  through  the  door. 

"I  suppose  everyone  else  in  this  house  will 
act  the  same,"  says  Frazer.  "All  afraid  of 
those  fool  doctors.  But  I  mean  to  beat  Si 
Atkins  if  it  takes  my  last  breath.  How  about 
you,  McCabe ;  will  you  stand  by  me?" 

"Seeing  how  I  got  you  into  this,"  says  I, 
* 'I  can't  do  less." 

' ' Good ! ' '  says  he.  "And  if  I  happen  to  pass 
out  with  my  boots  on?" 

1 '  Piffle ! ' '  says  I.  '  *  You  're  as  tough  as  a  pine 
knot  and  a  little  scrap  like  this  is  just  what 
you've  been  needin'  for  months.  Why,  man, 
look  in  the  glass.  You've  come  halfway  back 
already." 

"Shorty,"  says  he,  grippin'  my  hand,  "those 
are  the  most  encouraging  words  I've  heard  for 
weeks.  See  me  through  this  and  you'll  not  re- 
gret it.  There's  an  extension  'phone  in  that 
alcove.  Here,  let  me  write  the  number.  That's 
our  repair  shops.  Get  Burns,  our  construction 
superintendent,  on  the  wire. ' ' 


SHORTY  ANSWERS  A  HAIL       221 

And  when  I'd  made  the  connection  I  hands 
over  the  'phone  to  Old  Alibi.  "That  you, 
Burns  ?"  says  he.  "  This  is  Frazer.  Yes.  Meet 
me  at  the  Wilmot  in  Waterbury,  7.30  to-night. 
That's  what  I  said.  To-night.  And  listen, 
Burns.  You  know  where  that  Pawtucket  crowd 
want  to  cut  our  line  at  grade?  Have  a  gang 
there  at  daylight  ready  to  put  in  a  short  switch, 
say  a  hundred  yards.  Send  down  a  couple  of 
those  big  snow  plows,  too.  Get  that?  Yes,  the 
rotaries.  Good." 

Then  he  turns  to  me  and  grins.  "I  can  trust 
Burns,"  he  goes  on.  "Now  to  get  out  of  this. 
Thank  Heavens,  Edith  is  down  at  the  village. 
Turn  the  key  in  that  door  to  the  right,  will  you, 
and  lock  out  that  nurse.  That's  it.  Now  if  you 
will  throw  a  few  things  into  my  kit-Jbag.  In  that 
room  at  your  left.  Bag's  on  the  closet  shelf. 
Pajamas  and  so  on.  Pair  for  yourself.  Shav- 
ing things  in  the  bathroom.  Let's  see,  where 's 
that  check  book?  Ah!  Now  I  wonder  how  I 
can  navigate.  Little  wabbly  in  the  knees, 
Shorty,  but  I  guess  we  can  manage." 

Well,  we  did.  Couldn't  have  done  it  much 
quicker  if  the  house  had  been  on  fire.  I'll  bet 
it  wasn't  fifteen  minutes  before  we  were  down 
at  the  porte-cochere  with  me  helpin'  load  him 
into  the  limousine.  Frenchy  stares  some  when 
he  gets  his  sailin'  orders,  but  he  salutes  snappy. 


222     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

"Eet  ees  in  Con-nec-ti-cut ;  yes,  M'sieur?" 
says  he. 

"Yes,"  says  Frazer.  "Due  east.  You  know 
the  way.  And  a  little  speed,  Henri. ' ' 

Say,  that  was  some  excursion  for  a  man 
who 's  just  crawled  out  of  a  wheel-chair,  but  Old 
Alibi  settles  himself  comfortable  in  the  corner, 
turns  on  the  electric  heater,  and  seems  to  be 
enjoyin'  every  sway  and  jolt.  Next  thing  I 
know  he's  discovered  a  cigar  case  in  the  pocket 
of  his  mink-lined  overcoat  and  is  lightin'  up  one 
of  his  slim  black  cigars. 

"First  in  ten  weeks,"  says  he.  "Lord, 
Shorty,  but  it  tastes  good!" 

"If  it  does,"  says  I,  "maybe  that's  just  what 
you  need.  Go  to  it !" 

Anyway,  he's  very  much  of  a  live  one  when 
we  rolls  into  Waterbury  just  before  dark,  and 
from  the  size  of  the  steak  he  orders  for  dinner 
I  judge  that  his  appetite  is  coming  back  to  him. 
And  by  the  time  Burns  shows  up  he's  pacin'  up 
and  down  the  lobby  burnin'  his  second  pana- 
tella. 

"Why,  Mr.  Frazer!"  says  Burns,  "I  thought 
you  were  a  sick  man. ' ' 

"So  did  Si  Atkins,"  says  Frazer,  "but  my 
friend  Shorty  here  has  persuaded  me  that  I'm 
not.  At  least,  I've  escaped  those  infernal  spe- 
cialists. Now  let's  get  to  business." 

It  wasn't  a  long  session  him  and  the  superin- 


SHORTY  ANSWERS  A  HAIL       223 

tendent  had,  and  by  9.30  I  saw  him  tucked  away 
in  the  feathers  with  a  7  o'clock  call  in  for  the 
morning.  Course,  it  was  a  question  whether  Old 
Alibi  could  answer  it  or  not,  but  blamed  if  I 
don't  hear  him  stirrin'  around  before  I'd  rolled 
out  myself. 

"Sleep?"  says  he.  "I  haven't  had  such  a 
sleep  in  a  year,  Shorty.  And  make  that  break- 
fast order  about  three  soft  boiled  eggs  for  me, 
with  bacon,  coffee  and  rolls.  Tell  'em  to  hurry 
it  up,  too.  I'm  starved." 

"That  doesn't  listen  much  like  an  invalid," 
says  I.  "Maybe  some  of  them  specialists 
guessed  wrong,  eh?" 

"You  bet  they  did!"  says  Frazer.  "So  did 
Si  Atkins." 

And  if  you'd  been  on  the  scene  of  action  a 
couple  of  hours  later  you  'd  thought  so,  too.  It 's 
some  busy  little  party,  take  it  from  me.  Burns 
and  his  gang  was  on  hand,  makin'  the  dirt  fly, 
and  what  does  Mr.  Frazer  do  but  hop  out  of  the 
car  and  take  charge  of  the  proceedin's. 

"Never  mind  fancy  ballasting,"  says  he. 
"Just  get  that  switch  in  any  old  way.  Here, 
Brady,  lend  a  hand  on  that  hacksaw  and  cut 
that  rail.  You,  Mike,  speed  up  those  men  laying 
those  ties.  Any  signs  of  the  enemy,  Burns? 
Ah,  who 's  that  coming  down  the  road  ?  Yes,  it 's 
old  Si.  Got  his  surveyors  with  him,  too.  Sur- 
veyors! Huh!" 


224     SHOETY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

Sure  enough,  when  the  touring  car  rolls  up, 
there's  Atkins  with  a  surveyin'  bunch.  And 
you  should  have  seen  his  eyes  bulge  out  when 
he  spots  Old  Alibi  in  the  midst  of  all  this 
activity. 

"What — what  does  this  mean,  Frazer?"  he 
demands,  as  he  steps  out. 

"Why,"  says  Old  Alibi,  winkin'  at  Burns, 
"our  road  superintendent  concluded  that  we 
needed  another  switch  put  in  just  about  here. 
Enterprising  chap,  eh?" 

"But  see  here!"  protests  Atkins,  "this  is 
just  where  our  crossing  is  to  come." 

"What  a  coincidence!"  observes  Frazer. 
"May  make  it  rather  awkward  for  you,  I  fear." 

"No,  it  won't!"  snaps  Atkins.  "Not  a  bit. 
Eemember  we  have  the  courts  back  of  us. 
We'll  just  tear  it  up,  that's  all." 

"That  will  be  interesting  to  watch,  too,"  says 
Frazer.  "Burns,  signal  those  rotaries  to  run 
down  a  little  closer.  See  'em  up  there,  Atkins? 
Well,  they  are  to  occupy  this  switch  for  the  next 
two  weeks,  longer  if  necessary,  with  their  snow 
cutters  going;  and  if  you  have  any  spare 
laborers  you  want  turned  into  sausage  meat  just 
send  'em  along." 

"This — this  is  a  high-handed  outrage," 
sputters  Atkins,  turnin'  purple  under  his  white 
whiskers. 

"Oh,  come,  Atkins,"  says  Frazer,  "aren't 


SHORTY  ANSWERS  A  HAIL       225 

you  a  little  rough  with  a  sick  man?  Suppose  we 
step  into  my  car  and  talk  it  over.  Maybe  you  '11 
decide  you  want  to  sell  your  line  after  all,  and 
then  we  can  stop  all  this  foolishness.  Eh? 
What  do  you  say?" 

I  couldn't  hear  what  he  said,  for  they  were 
shut  up  in  the  limousine  for  the  next  half  hour. 
But  when  they  came  out  he's  just  stowin'  away 
a  check  and  they  parts  with  a  friendly  shake. 
After  which  Burns  shoos  away  the  big  snow 
plows,  work  on  the  switch  is  stopped  where  it  is 
and  we  drives  back  to  Waterbury  for  a  whaling 
big  lunch. 


"Huh !"  says  Swifty  Joe,  as  I  shows  up  at  the 
Studio  next  morning  a  couple  of  hours  late. 
"Took  you  some  time  to  cheer  up  that  sick  plute 
friend  of  yours ;  or  did  he  check  out  on  you?" 

"He  didn't  check  out,"  says  I.  "In  fact,  I 
left  him  as  good  as  new." 

"How  did  you  do  it?"  asks  Swifty. 

"Simple  enough,"  says  I.  "Just  sicced  him 
on  a  few  loose  dollars  and  he  went  after  'em 
like  a  terrier  after  a  rat." 

"I  expect  he  didn't  pass  any  on  to  you, 
though?"  says  Swifty. 

"Only  this,"  says  I,  exhibitin'  a  pink  slip. 
"Take  a  look." 


226     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

' '  A — a  cool  thousand ! ' '  gasps  S wif  ty.  '  *  Say, 
of  all  the  lucky  stiffs!" 

' ' Oh,  I  don 't  know, ' '  says  I.  "It  takes  more 
or  less  knack  to  pull  'em  out  of  a  wheel-chair 
that  way.  In  fact,  it's  almost  an  art." 

"Ahr-r-r  chee!"  says  Swifty,  out  of  the  side 
of  his  mouth. 

"It  is  when  you  get  away  with  it,"  says  I. 


XIV 

SHORTY   IN   A   NEW   BILL 

I  EXPECT  I'm  a  little  late  in  gettin'  the  hunch, 
but  if  you  really  want  to  know  where  you  stand 
with  the  neighbors  just  let  some  of  your  so- 
called  friends  ring  you  in  on  local  politics  and 
wish  a  little  two  by  four  office  on  you.  Say,  it's 
more  illuminatin'  than  an  X-ray  picture  or 
havin'  your  bumps  read  by  a  headologist. 

Here  a  while  back  I  was  nursin'  along  the 
idea  that  my  ratin'  as  a  citizen  of  Kockhurst-on- 
the-Sound  was  along  about  fair  to  middlin'. 
Course,  when  it  came  to  finances,  I  didn't  count 
myself  in  with  the  plutes  and  near-plutes; 
among  our  little  bunch  of  high-brows  I  knew 
I  was  a  flivver;  and  if  it  was  a  case  of  social 
rank  I'd  be  classed  among  the  also-rans  every 
time. 

Yet  I'd  lived  out  here  quite  some  time  with- 
out havin'  to  face  the  judge  from  the  wrong 
side  of  the  court  room;  I'd  always  paid  my 
taxes  prompt;  I  hadn't  run  off  with  anybody's 
wife;  nor  I  hadn't  traded  in  my  liberty  bonds 
for  wildcat  minin'  stock.  I  was  servin'  my 
fourth  term  as  director  of  the  Yacht  Club,  I'd 

227 


228     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

helped  organize  the  Citizens'  League  and  I'd 
subscribed  to  all  the  funds,  from  the  Armenian 
appeal  to  the  one  to  raise  a  permanent  me- 
morial to  our  war  heroes.  I'd  even  been  re- 
ferred to  as  ''our  esteemed  fellow  townsman, 
Professor  McCabe,"  in  the  last  annual  report  of 
the  Committee  on  War  Gardens.  Right  out  in 
print,  too. 

So  when  I  gets  word  that  I've  been  picked  to 
fill  in  this  vacancy  on  the  School  Board  I  ain't 
as  much  surprised  as  some  might  think  I'd  be. 
Course,  I  starts  in  by  making  a  noise  like  a  man 
sufferin'  from  ingrowin'  modesty. 

"Well,  wouldn't  that  frost  a  cake!"  I  re- 
marks, turnin'  to  Sadie.  "Me  named  to  help 
run  the  schools !  And  I  never  even  got  through 
the  eighth  grade  myself.  Say,  I'll  make  a  fancy 
educator,  I  will.  I  guess  somebody  must  have 
pulled  a  bone." 

"I'm  sure  I  see  nothing  strange  about  it," 
says  Sadie.  "I  think  it's  rather  a  compliment, 
Shorty,  though  nothing  more  than  you  really 
deserve." 

' ' Good  girl,  Sadie ! ' '  says  I.  "I  might  know 
you'd  stand  up  for  me.  And  if  that's  the  way 
you  feel  about  it,  blamed  if  I  don't  give  the 
thing  a  whirl ;  yes,  even  if  I  have  to  wear  a  pair 
of  eyeglasses  on  a  black  ribbon  to  dress  the 
part." 

I  got  to  admit  though,  that  way  inside  of  me 


SHORTY  IN  A  NEW  BILL          229 

I  could  feel  something  swellin'  out  my  ribs  in 
front.  Member  of  the  Board  of  Education! 
Eh?  Wasn't  that  comin'  along  some?  'Spe- 
cially for  a  guy  that  started  where  I  had.  I 
couldn't  help  wonderin'  what  some  of  the  old 
gang  would  say  if  they  should  hear  about  it — 
the  ones  I'd  known  back  in  the  days  when  I  was 
meetin'  all  comers  who  could  make  the  weight, 
when  I  was  figuring  strong  in  the  sportin' 
columns  and  earning  the  big  end  of  the  gate  re- 
ceipts by  hammerin'  other  young  gents  around 
a  roped  platform.  Huh!  Wouldn't  the  news 
get  a  gasp  out  of  'em? 

That  pleasin'  frame  of  mind  lasts  until  I 
begun  gettin'  the  returns  from  some  of  my  good 
neighbors.  It  was  about  the  second  mornin' 
that  the  news  seemed  to  have  spread  general 
among  the  commuters  on  the  8.03,  and  they  sure 
had  a  merry  time  joshin'  me  on  the  way  into 
town. 

"Hey,  Shorty!"  says  one,  slappin'  me  on  the 
back.  "Where  have  you  been  concealing  this 
brainy  stuff  all  the  while?" 

"Oh,  that's  simple,  with  pin  heads  like  you," 
says  I. 

"Do  I  understand,  Professor,"  says  another, 
"that  you  mean  to  add  a  course  of  applied 
pugilism  to  the  high  school  curriculum?" 

That  gets  a  big  laugh  from  the  cross  seats 
where  a  bridge  game  is  going  on. 


"Say,"  says  I,  "if  the  Board  wants  to  start  a 
class  in  comic  kiddin'  I  can  name  some  who'd 
qualify  for  the  kindergarten  department.  Come 
now,  anybody  else  with  a  wheeze  he's  been 
savin'  up  for  me?" 

Not  that  most  of  it  wasn't  good  natured  and 
all  that,  but  the  fact  remains  that  my  having 
anything  to  do  with  managin'  the  schools  is  con- 
sidered a  joke.  Oh,  yes.  That  seems  to  be  the 
general  view.  It's  unanimous,  you  might  say. 
Even  Mr.  Purdy-Pell,  who  seldom  forgets  his 
family  tree  long  enough  to  smile  at  any  common 
party,  has  to  get  in  his  little  crack. 

"Congratulations,  McCabe,  on  the  new  civic 
honor  which  has  come  to  you,"  says  he,  "al- 
though I  was  unaware  you  were  at  all  inter- 
ested in  pedagogy. ' ' 

"I  didn't  know  I  was  either,"  says  I,  "until 
just  recent.  Sudden  attack.  I'm  just  bugs  on 
it." 

And  not  until  I'd  got  to  the  Physical  Culture 
Studio  and  looked  up  the  word  in  Swifty  Joe's 
dollar-down  dictionary  was  I  sure  he  was  tryin* 
to  be  humorous. 

Course,  I'm  no  thin  skinned,  sensitive  party 
who  can't  stand  a  josh  now  and  then,  but  when 
I  finds  I'm  furnishin'  mirth  for  the  whole  town 
it  kind  of  got  me  wonderin'  if  I  wasn't  overdoin' 
the  thing.  You  know.  You  don't  mind  doing 


SHORTY  IN  A  NEW  BILL          231 

the  clown  act  occasional  if  you  take  the  part 
with  that  understandin ',  but  when  the  crowd  be- 
gins to  guy  your  serious  lines  that's  something 
different. 

So  when  I  gets  home  that  evenin'  I  pikes 
down  to  the  village  right  after  dinner  and  hunts 
up  Brick  Hogan.  He's  the  ex-boss  of  our  dis- 
trict, Brick  is,  and  until  the  Citizens '  League  got 
busy  and  busted  up  his  machine  he  ran  our  local 
politics  with  one  hand  and  his  contractin'  busi- 
ness with  the  other.  I  must  say,  too,  now  that 
I've  got  to  know  him  better,  I  think  he  made  a 
better  job  of  it  all  'round  than  our  mixed  bunch 
of  high-brows,  ministers  and  prominent  busi- 
ness men.  And  allowin'  that  Brick  did  get  his 
rake  off  on  street  openings,  pavin'  contracts 
and  so  on,  I  ain't  sure  but  he  was  worth  every 
dollar  of  it. 

It  was  a  couple  of  years  ago  that  we  rose  up 
in  our  might  and  chucked  out  the  Hogan  crowd, 
and  all  the  grip  on  public  affairs  we  left  Brick 
was  this  hold-over  job  on  the  school  board, 
where  he's  been  in  a  hopeless  minority.  Since 
then  though  I've  been  revisin'  my  opinion  of 
Brick — maybe  I  told  you  once  how  I  caught  him 
red-handed  supportin'  the  children's  ward  at 
the  county  T.  B.  hospital  out  of  his  own  pocket 
— and  gradually  we've  established  more  or  less 
friendly  relations.  So  when  I  decides  that  I 


232     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

wants  the  details  of  this  Board  of  Education  ap- 
pointment that  strikes  everybody  so  humorous 
I  goes  straight  at  Brick. 

1  'Who  was  the  bright  comedian  that  thought 
that  up  ? "  I  demands. 

"Guilty,"  says  Brick. 

"Eh?"  says  I.  "You!  What  was  the  big 
idea,  anyway?  Can't  you  amuse  folks  some 
other  way  than  by  makin'  me  a  public  joke?" 

He's  a  big,  heavy,  slow  motioned  man,  Brick 
Hogan,  who  always  seems  half  asleep  even  in 
the  midst  of  a  hot  debate.  If  it  wasn't  for  them 
keen,  steady  eyes  of  his  you  might  think  his 
brain  acted  sort  of  sluggish.  But  you'd  be 
badly  fooled. 

"Shorty,"  says  he,  "did  you  ever  hear  any- 
one accuse  me  of  being  a  humorist?" 

"  No, "  says  I.    ' '  Everything  but  that. ' ' 

"Well,"  says  Brick,  "then  there's  your 
answer.  When  I  saw  a  chance  of  slipping  you 
in  on  the  Board  I  did  it  because  I  knew  you'd 
be  a  useful  member.  If  you  must  know,  Shorty, 
I'm  good  and  sick  of  these  amateur  reformers. 
They're  a  lot  of  quitters." 

He  is  just  explainin'  how  one  of  'em  had  re- 
signed because  the  monthly  Board  meetin'  in- 
terfered with  some  of  his  dinner  party  dates, 
and  that  four  other  prominent  citizens  had  side- 
stepped an  appointment  to  fill  in  the  term. 

"So  when  they  were  all  through,"  says  Brick, 


SHORTY  IN  A  NEW  BILL         233 

"I  suggests  your  name,  and  before  they  knew 
where  they  were  at  the  motion  was  carried. 
Then  I  rushed  the  recommendation  over  to  the 
mayor  and  had  his  appointment  confirmed  by 
the  Council  within  an  hour.  So  there  you  are." 

"I  had  a  hunch  it  must  have  happened  some- 
thing like  that,"  says  I.  "But  honest,  Brick, 
I  have  half  a  mind  to  get  from  under.  Course, 
I'd  like  to  help  you  push  through  that  play- 
ground proposition  and  do  a  little  boostin'  for 
a  new  high  school  buildin',  but  if  they  keep 
pullin'  this  joke  stuff  on  me  I'm  liable  to  mess 
somebody  serious.  It's  gettin'  on  my  nerves 
already. ' ' 

"Bah!"  says  Brick.  "Don't  mind 'em.  Let 
'em  yawp.  That's  all  a  bunch  of  commuters  is 
good  for  anyway.  They  ain't  interested  enough 
in  town  affairs  to  take  hold  themselves  but 
they're  mighty  free  to  roast  anybody  that  does. 
They  make  the  poorest  lot  of  citizens  you 
could Eh?  Was  that  someone  knocking?" 

It  was.  And  when  Brick  sings  out  for  'em 
to  come  in  who  should  slide  through  the  door 
but  the  Hon.  Hiram  Dishler.  And  for  fear  you 
haven't  heard  about  the  Hon.  Hi  before  I'll 
state  that  he's  the  big  noise  in  Rockhurst-on- 
the-Sound.  Oh  my,  yes!  He's  chairman  of  the 
Citizens'  League,  president  of  the  First  Na- 
tional, chief  stockholder  in  the  Nut  and  Bolt 
Works,  and  the  heaviest  owner  of  undeveloped 


234     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

real  estate  in  the  county.  You  could  almost 
guess  that  by  the  white  banker  side  whiskers  he 
wears  and  the  stiff  way  he  holds  his  neck.  He's 
the  sort  of  party  you  wouldn't  like  to  have 
holdin'  a  mortgage  on  the  old  home,  or  meet  at 
a  poker  table  with  the  limit  raised.  When  he 
discovers  me  danglin'  one  leg  from  the  corner 
of  Brick  Hogan's  flat-topped  desk  he  seems  to 
get  quite  a  jolt.  But  he  recovers  quick. 

"Ah,  McCabe!"  says  he.  "How  fortunate. 
For  I  had  come  to  consult  Mr.  Hogan  as  to  this 
— er — somewhat  hasty  appointment  of  yours. 
Now  I  can  speak  directly  to  you  both. ' ' 

' '  Looks  like  you  could, ' '  says  I.    ' '  Shoot. ' ' 

"It  is  quite  possible,"  says  the  Hon.  Hi, 
"that  you  have  not  decided  to  accept  the  of- 
fice or  that  you  have  not  considered  the  thing 
seriously." 

"Serious?"  says  I.  "Why,  as  I've  just  been 
tellin'  Brick,  it  seems  to  be  one  of  the  funniest 
acts  ever  pulled  in  Eockhurst." 

The  Hon.  Hi  sort  of  sucks  in  his  breath  re- 
lieved. "Then — then  you  will  decline?"  he 
asks. 

"Why  should  he?"  demands  Brick. 

"I  think  the  reasons  are  obvious  enough," 
says  the  Hon.  Hi.  ' '  McCabe  would  not  claim  to 
be  an  educated  man,  I  am  sure,  and  on  the  school 
board  we  expect " 

"How   about   your   man   Bixby,   the    shoe- 


SHORTY  IN  A  NEW  BILL         235 

maker?"  breaks  in  Hogan.  "Call  him  a  high- 
brow, do  you  ? ' ' 

"Mr.  Bixby,"  says  the  Hon.  Hi,  stiffening 
"represents  a  certain  element  of  our  constitu- 
ency which  the  Citizens'  League  was  bound  to 
recognize.  Besides,  he  is  one  of  our  leading 
shop  keepers  and  a  reputable  citizen. ' ' 

"Now  we're  gettin'  somewhere,"  I  put  in. 

"And  when  it  comes  to  me Say,  I  expect 

I'm  a  blot  on  the  'scutcheon,  eh?" 

"I  had  hardly  intended  to  go  into  that,"  says 
the  Hon.  Hi,  "but  since  you  force  the  issue  I 
must  remind  you  that  your  previous  career  in 
the  prize  ring " 

"Oh,  come!"  breaks  in  Brick  Hogan. 
"Shorty  isn't  a  prize  fighter  now.  He  hasn't 
been  for  years,  and  you  know  it.  He's  a  prop- 
erty holder,  a  family  man,  and  he  behaves  him- 
self. So  what  are  you  beefing  about  ? ' ' 

"If  you  will  allow  me,"  comes  back  the  Hon. 
Hi,  crisp  and  snappy,  "I  would  suggest  that 
your  indorsement,  Mr.  Hogan,  is  no  longer  of 
value  to  any  candidate  for  office  in  this  district. 
In  fact,  it  is  more  apt  to  raise  suspicion  against 
the  person  you  support." 

"Yes,  I  understand  all  that,"  says  Brick, 
hunchin'  his  shoulders.  "You  spotless  re- 
formers are  ready  to  believe  I've  got  hoofs  and 
a  forked  tail,  which  doesn't  worry  me  a  bit. 
You've  made  a  sad  mess  of  running  public  af- 


236     SHOETY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

fairs  and  the  voters  are  beginning  to  get  wise 
to  you.  So  every  move  I  make  gives  you  shivers 
up  the  spine.  You  know  that  Brick  Hogan  can 
come  back.  And  I'm  going  to  do  it  next  No- 
vember. But  I  haven't  started  in  yet.  McCabe 
isn't  one  of  my  strikers.  He's  one  of  your  own 
men,  and  you  were  glad  enough  to  have  his  help 
as  long  as  he  kept  in  the  background.  But  when 
I  try  to  put  him  in  a  place  where  he  can  be  really 
useful  you  throw  a  fit.  Now  my  advice  to  you, 
Dishler,  is  to  lay  off." 

The  Hon.  Hi  springs  one  of  them  sarcastic 
smiles  of  his.  "Your  views  are  neither  novel 
nor  interesting, ' '  says  he.  ' '  As  for  your  advice, 
I  shall  disregard  that  utterly.  I  think  it  will 
take  me  but  a  short  time  to  convince  McCabe 
that  he  should  at  once  resign  as  a  member  of 
the  Board  of  Education." 

"Listens  menacin',  that  does,"  says  I.  "Go 
on,  I  got  my  ear  stretched.  Suppose  I  'm  mulish 
enough  not  to  quit?" 

"And  I'll  bet  you  a  hundred  to  ten  that  he 
doesn  't, ' '  puts  in  Brick.  « « What  then,  Dishler  f ' ' 

"Our  course  will  be  very  simple,"  says  the 
Hon.  Hi.  "We  shall  be  obliged  to  remind  the 
citizens,  in  a  somewhat  public  manner,  that  an 
ex-pugilist  is  hardly  the  person  to  be  entrusted 
with  the  conduct  of  our  schools.  If  McCabe 
wishes  to  have  his  past ' 

'  *  Say, ' '  I  breaks  in, ' '  if  you  think  there 's  any- 


SHORTY  IN  A  NEW  BILL         237. 

thing  in  my  ring  record  that  I'm  ashamed  of 
you've  got  another  guess." 

"Still,"  says  Dishler,  "in  this  connection  it 
might  have  the  desired  effect  if  all  the  details 
appeared  in  print  at  the  time  a  petition  for  your 
removal  was  being  circulated." 

And,  say,  he  was  dead  right.  I  could  see  that 
with  one  eye  shut.  The  Hon.  Hi  had  the  editor 
of  the  local  paper  right  under  his  thumb.  He 
could  make  him  jump  through  a  hoop.  "Pugi- 
list on  School  Board. ' '  That  would  make  a  nice 
headline,  wouldn't  it?  'Specially  for  a  lot  of 
women  voters  to  read. 

"Dishler,"  says  I,  "when  I  meet  a  skunk  in 
the  road  I  don't  argue  with  him  as  to  who  has 
the  right  of  way.  So  you  win.  My  entry  is 
scratched." 

"Scratched  nothin'!"  growls  Brick  Hogan. 
"Wait.  If  Mr.  Dishler  wants  to  dig  up  past 
records  I  guess  we  can  accommodate  him.  He's 
lived  a  few  years  himself  and  maybe  there 's  one 
or  two  little  incidents  in  his  career  that  ain't 
buried  so  deep  but  what  they  could  be  dragged 
out.  Anyway,  I  know  of  one  in  particular." 
And  them  keen  eyes  of  Hogan 's  is  fixed  steady 
on  the  Hon.  Hi. 

"Bah!"  says  Dishler,  star  in'  back  at  him. 
"Everyone  in  this  town  knows  that  my  life  has 
been  as  an  open  book." 

"Yes,  you've  got  most  of  'em  buffaloed,  I'll 


238     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

admit,"  says  Brick.  "But  I  happen  to  know  of 
a  page  or  so  in  that  book  that's  been  gummed 
down. ' ' 

* '  Just  what  do  you  mean  by  the  innuendo  ? ' ' 
demands  the  Hon.  Hi. 

"I  expect  it  was  what  you'd  call  a  little 
romance,"  says  Brick,  "although  I  should  say 
it  was  kind  of  late  for  that  sort  of  foolishness. 
In  the  forties,  weren  't  you  f  And  you  must  have 
had  a  swell  time  squaring  yourself  at  home,  too. 
But  you  did  it.  Hushed  up  the  girl,  too." 

By  this  time  the  Hon.  Hi  was  twitchin'  his 
fingers  and  gettin'  purple  behind  his  white  side 
whiskers.  "This — this  is  a  baseless  slander, 
Hogan,  and  you  are  well  aware  of  it, ' '  he  finally 
gets  out  throaty. 

Brick  is  leaning  across  his  desk,  them  eyes  of 
Ids  never  waverin',  and  one  of  his  big  ham  fists 
stretched  out.  "Shall  I  tell  you  the  young 
woman's  name?"  he  asks. 

And  say,  I  never  expected  to  see  the  Hon.  Hi 
squirmin'  like  that.  Twice  he  opens  his  mouth 
to  say  something,  but  each  time  he  chokes  it 
back.  Then,  after  he's  paced  nervous  up  and 
down  the  little  office  a  couple  of  turns,  he  seems 
to  get  a  grip  on  himself. 

"This  is  absurd,  Hogan,"  says  he.  "Who- 
ever told  you  such  a  ridiculous  story  must  have 
been " 

"It  didn't  strike  me  as  so  absurd  or  ridicu- 


SHORTY  IN  A  NEW  BILL         239 

lous,"  says  Brick.  "I  didn't  get  it  second- 
handed,  either.  You  know  you  hadn't  treated 
her  quite  right.  Not  the  way  you'd  promised. 
And  she  stood  it  without  a  whimper  until  she 
was  nearly  down  and  out.  Then  she  came  to  me 
for  help.  They  used  to,  you  know,  when  I  was 
runnin'  the  district.  Even  now.  She  didn't 
mean  to  tell.  But  when  I  began  asking  ques- 
tions— well,  it  came  out.  The  whole  story.  Not 
much  proof  beyond  her  word.  Only  a  scribbled 
note  or  so.  Possibly  not  enough  to  go  before  a 
jury  with.  But  I  could  find  a  lawyer  who  would 
take  her  case." 

The  Hon.  Hi  is  pale  now,  but  he 's  got  over  his 
case  of  fidgets.  He  hunches  his  shoulders  care- 
less.  * '  Very  well, ' '  says  he.  '  *  But  the  very  day 
you  start  such  an  action  I  shall  have  you  both 
arrested  on  a  charge  of  blackmail. ' ' 

"Of  course,"  says  Brick.  "You  might  get 
away  with  it,  too.  And  I  expect  you  could  keep 
it  out  of  the  papers.  But  that  wouldn't  stop  it 
from  being  circulated.  Oh,  no,  Dishler.  It 
would  be  whispered  in  corners  at  the  clubs, 
passed  around  on  the  train,  gossiped  about  at 
teas  and  dinner  parties.  It  would  spread  until 
there  wasn't  a  grown  person  in  Rockhurst  who 
hadn't  heard  of  it.  You  think  you  have  a  lot 
of  friends,  eh?  Just  test  'em  out  with  this  and 
see  whether  they'd  rather  believe  the  best  of 
you,  or  the  worst." 


240     SHOETY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIIi 

He  'd  made  a  great  actor,  Brick  Hogan.  Just 
that  voice  of  his,  low  and  clear  and  heavy,  would 
have  made  him  a  Broadway  star.  I've  often 
thought  as  much.  And  now  he  sure  was  regis- 
terin'  on  the  Hon.  Hi.  First  thing  I  knew 
Dishler  has  slumped  into  a  chair,  his  chin  on 
his  neck- tie,  and  is  starin'  at  the  floor.  He'd 
got  the  picture. 

"But — but  this  is  infamous!"  he  groans. 

"How  about  what  you're  plannin'  to  put  over 
on  Shorty?"  demands  Brick. 

"I — er — perhaps  I  was  mistaken  about  that," 
says  Dishler.  "If  you  really  wish  him  to  retain 
the  office " 

"I  do,"  breaks  in  Brick. 

' '  Then — then  I  have  no  doubt  that  it  could  be 
— er — arranged, ' '  says  the  Hon.  Hi. 

"Good!"  says  Brick.  "We'll  fix  it  up  right 
now.  Shorty,  it's  all  right.  I'll  let  you  know 
to-morrow." 

Uh-huh.  It  was  all  right.  I  never  heard  the 
details  of  that  private  confab  him  and  Dishler 
had  after  I  left,  but  the  Rockhurst  News  didn't 
feature  me  in  any  scare  head.  And  the  joshin' 
sort  of  dropped  off. 

All  the  same,  I  didn't  feel  like  makin'  myself 
prominent  at  the  Board  meetin'.  I  sat  still  and 
didn't  lip  in  on  the  debates.  If  it  hadn't  been 
for  Sadie  insistin'  that  I  go  every  time  I  guess 
I'd  have  ducked  some  of  the  sessions. 


SHORTY  IN  A  NEW  BILL         241 

And  then  here  one  day  I  gets  a  new  angle  on 
my  job.  It's  handed  to  me  right  across  my 
own  breakfast  table.  Little  Sully  passes  over 
his  monthly  report  card  for  me  to  sign.  Well, 
I'd  always  done  it  after  a  hasty  glance  to  see 
that  he  hadn't  been  absent  too  often  and  his 
conduct  marks  wasn't  below  par. 

But  this  time,  rememberin'  some  talk  at  the 
Board  about  changin'  the  cards,  I  looks  it  over 
kind  of  curious. 

"What's  the  P  stand  for  after  geography, 
Sully?"  I  asks. 

"Ah,  it  tells  at  the  top,  don't  it1?"  says  he, 
sort  of  sulky. 

"So  it  does,"  says  I.  "Pox>r,  eh?  I  take  it 
you  ain't  much  of  a  star  at  geography." 

"I  hate  it,"  says  Sully.  "That  old  Skinny 
Simmons,  she — she's  a  poor  prune,  she  is." 

"Why,  Sully!"  gasps  Sadie.  "The  idea  of 
you  talking  that  way  about  one  of  your  teachers. 
Shorty,  why  don't  you  stop  him?" 

* '  I  expect  I  should, ' '  says  I.  ' '  But  then,  most 
likely  he  don 't  mean  it.  Eh,  Sully  ? ' ' 

"I  do,"  insists  Sully  prompt.  "She's  no 
good.  You  ought  to  see.  Say,  Pop,  if  I  was 
helpin'  run  the  schools,  like  you  are,  I'd  give 
her  the  chuck. ' ' 

"There,  there,  son!  That'll  do  from  you," 
says  I. 

Yet  when  I  got  to  thinkin'  it  over  afterward 


242     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

it  kind  of  struck  me  that  there  might  be  some- 
thing in  Sully 's  complaint.  Youngsters  don't 
always  get  down  on  their  teachers  without  good 
cause.  Course,  they  do  sometimes.  And  who's 
to  find  out!  There  ought  to  be — say,  hadn't  I 
heard  something  about  a  teachers'  committee? 
I'd  ask  Brick  Hogan.  He'd  know. 

"Sure  there  is,"  says  Brick,  "and  you're 
chairman. ' ' 

"The  blazes  I  am!"  says  I.  "And  what  am 
I  supposed  to  do?" 

"Oh,  you're  supposed  to  hire  'em  and  fire 
'em, ' '  says  Brick.  "Asa  matter  of  fact  though, 
we  usually  leave  that  to  the  superintendent  and 
just  O.K.  his  list." 

"I  see,"  says  I.  "Do  the  rubber  stamp 
act." 

"That's  about  all,"  says  Brick. 

I  scratches  my  head  for  a  minute  or  so,  and 
that  seemed  to  stir  up  an  idea.  "See  here, 
Brick,"  says  I,  "I  ain't  strong  for  playin'  that 
kind  of  part.  This  superintendent  guy  may  be 
all  right,  and  then  again  maybe  he's  the  kind 
that  plays  favorites.  Strikes  me  we  ought  to 
get  a  line  on  the  ones  we're  payin'  out  good 
money  to.  Couldn't  we  kind  of  sleuth  around  a 
little?" 

' '  Sure  we  could, ' '  says  Brick.  ' '  That  was  the 
original  idea  only — well,  we've  seldom  had  any- 
body on  the  Board  who'd  take  the  time  to  do  it. 


SHORTY  IN  A  NEW  BILL         243 

But  if  you  really  want  to  make  work  of  your 
job » 

"I'm  just  foolish  enough  for  that,"  says  I. 

So  that's  how  it  happens  me  and  Brick  Hogan 
began  taking  an  Afternoon  off  every  week  to 
spend  visitin'  the  different  class  rooms.  I'll 
admit  I  felt  kind  of  foolish  the  first  few  times, 
sittin'  up  there  on  the  platform  with  the  young 
lady  teachers  all  fussed  up  and  some  of  the  kids 
gigglin'  behind  their  books.  But  after  a  while 
I  got  kind  of  used  to  it  and  the  youngsters  got 
used  to  seem'  me.  I  got  'em  to  understand  I 
didn't  want  any  exhibition  stuff  pulled  for  my 
benefit,  but  just  wanted  to  see  the  reg'lar  work. 

It  did  take  a  good  deal  of  time,  and  it  was  a 
month  or  more  before  I  got  what  I  thought  was 
a  slant  that  was  worth  while.  My  first  clue  was 
that  Miss  Simmons  hated  to  teach  geography 
almost  as  much  as  Sully  hated  tryin'  to  learn  it. 
But  I  noticed  that  the  window  boxes  in  her  room 
was  the  best  in  the  building.  She  had  all  kinds 
of  flowers  in  bloom,  bulbs  shootin'  up,  even 
radishes  and  lettuce  growin'.  And  a  couple  of 
times  I  found  her  with  a  bunch  of  kids  around 
showin'  how  the  things  grew. 

Then  there  was  Miss  Mathers,  who  had  arith- 
metic and  spelling.  Kind  of  a  giddy,  flossy 
young  party,  Miss  Mathers  was,  who  frequently 
looked  like  she'd  been  out  late  to  a  dance  the 
night  before.  Yet  she  could  drill  the  scholars 


244     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

through  the  times  table  and  so  on  after  a 
fashion.  She  has  to  admit  that  they  were  a 
stupid  lot,  though.  Their  report  cards 
proved  it. 

Yet  the  same  kids,  when  they  got  into  Miss 
Sawyer's  hist'ry  class,  seemed  to  pep  up  a  lot. 
She  had  a  trick  of  readin'  stories  that  wasn't  in 
the  book  at  all,  about  Indian  fightin',  and  what 
Daniel  Webster  had  to  say  about  the  woodchuck, 
and  so  on.  She  did  a  lot  of  explaining  too,  and 
got  the  boys  askin'  questions.  Made  the  lesson 
kind  of  a  game.  Had  'em  smilin'  and 
laughin'. 

"  They  're  such  bright,  interesting  children, 
aren't  they?"  she  says  to  me. 

"Seems  to  depend  on  where  they  are," 
says  I. 

Course,  that  wasn't  statin'  it  exact.  But  I 
hadn't  quite  got  the  thing  framed  up.  When  I 
did  though,  and  sprung  it  on  the  Board  one 
night,  you  should  have  heard  what  I  ran  up 
against. 

"Do  I  understand,"  says  the  Rev.  Pedders, 
the  Episcopal  rector,  who  was  supposed  to  be 
our  leadin'  highbrow,  "that  you  would  hold  the 
teachers  responsible  for  the  failure  of  their 
pupils  to  pass  examinations?" 

"Something  like  that,"  says  I. 

"Rather  a  unique  theory  of  education,  isn't 
that,  McCabe?"  he  remarks.  "In  other  words, 


SHORTY  IN  A  NEW  BILL         245 

if  a  scholar  was  dull  you  would  blame  the 
teacher?" 

' '  Uh-huh ! ' '  says  I.  * '  And  if  enough  dull  ones 
showed  up  in  her  class  I'd  either  fire  her  or  try 
her  out  in  some  other  line." 

"H-m-m-m!"  says  the  Rev.  Pedders,  rubbin' 
his  bald  spot.  "  Revolutionary.  Quite.  You 
know  we  have  been  following  a  principle  exactly 
the  reverse  of  that  for  a  good  many  years." 

"Yes,"  says  I,  "but  how  does  it  work  out? 
Now  I  used  to  be  a  star  at  geography,  because 
we  had  a  teacher  who  made  kind  of  an  outdoor 
sport  of  it.  Why,  even  now  I'll  bet  I  could 
bound  what  used  to  be  Germany,  and  a  hot  lot 
of  good  it  does  me  with  the  map  of  Europe 
shiftin'  like  a  summer  thunder  cloud.  But  sup- 
pose we'd  had  that  kind  of  a  teacher  when  we 
tackled  grammar?  I  might  have  been  a  long 
haired  poet  by  now,  or  writin'  best  sellers  for 
the  department  store  trade.  I  claim  it's  up  to 
the  teacher  to  make  good.  Anyway,  if  I'm 
going  to  stick  on  this  committee  I'd  like  to  see 
the  scheme  tried  out." 

"And  I  move,"  cuts  in  Brick  Hogan, 
"that  Chairman  McCabe  be  granted  full 
powers." 

Say,  when  the  debate  had  run  along  until  past 
midnight  I  thought  I'd  started  something. 
First  off  the  opposition  had  us  beaten  5  to  4, 
but  the  next  thing  I  knew  the  Rev.  Pedders 


246     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

swung  to  my  side  and  the  motion  was  put 
through. 

I've  been  at  it  six  weeks  now.  Some  of  the 
teachers  I've  released;  some  I've  shifted 
around.  Miss  Simmons,  for  instance,  has 
dropped  geography  for  botany  and  domestic 
science.  She's  making  a  go  of  both  and  had 
her  pay  raised.  But  every  teacher  understands 
that  if  she  can't  keep  the  kids  interested  in  her 
branch  she's  liable  to  get  the  bounce.  "The 
McCabe  idea"  is  what  the  Rev.  Pedders  calls  it 
— half  joshin',  you  understand.  But  he's 
backin'  me  strong.  Tells  me  he's  writin'  it  up 
for  some  magazine  and  wants  my  picture. 
What  do  you  know  about  that?  If  I  keep  on 
gettin'  popular  they'll  be  namin'  a  cigar  after 
me  next.  When  they  do  I'll  send  a  box  to  the 
Hon.  Hi  Dishler. 

No,  never  another  peep  from  him.  Looks  like 
he'd  been  bottled  up  and  the  cork  driven  in. 
The  other  day  when  I  was  in  Hogan's  office 
lookin'  over  the  plans  for  the  new  school  play- 
grounds something  called  up  that  little  seance 
we  had  with  the  old  stiff. 

"Brick,"  says  I,  "you  sure  had  the  goods  on 
Dishler  that  time,  eh?" 

"Seemed  so,  I  suppose,"  says  Brick. 

And  that  got  me  prickin'  up  my  ears. 
"Seemed?"  says  I.  "Why,  unless  you  had  the 


SHORTY  IN  A  NEW  BILL          247 

facts  how  could  you  nail  him  so  pat!  Don't  tell 
me  you  do  the  clairvoyant  stunt." 

"Not  exactly,"  says  Brick,  puffin'  thoughtful 
on  his  cigar.  "It  was  a  fairly  good  guess 
though." 

' '  Ah  come ! ' '  says  I.  ' '  With  them  respectable 
white  whiskers  of  his  how  could  you  have  the 
nerve  to  play  such  a  long  shot  unless " 

"There  are  times,  Shorty,"  says  he,  "when 
it's  better  to  know  men  than  it  is  to  hold  cards. 
And  I've  noticed  that  the  stiff er  these  old  par- 
ties carry  their  necks  the  more  apt  they  are  to 
have  some  little  thing  like  that  buried  in  the 
back  lot.  I  didn't  actually  dig  anything  up.  I 
just  flourished  the  spade." 

"Say,  Brick,"  says  I,  drawin'  in  a  long 
breath,  "I'm  glad  I  ain't  got  anything  in  my 
past  that  needs  chloride  of  lime  on  it.  As  it 
is  I'd  just  as  soon  you  turned  them  lamps  of 
yours  the  other  way  a  minute  while  I  steadies 
my  nerves." 

And  Brick,  he  chuckles  easy. 


XV 

WHAT  AUNT  ABBIE   HAS   COMING 


,  Miss?"  says  I,  thro  win'  it  over  my 
shoulder  sort  of  crisp  and  important. 

Not  that  I  was  tryin'  to  be  any  more  of  a 
crab  than  usual,  but  just  to  give  her  the  quick 
hunch  that  she's  pushed  through  the  wrong 
door. 

You'd  'most  think,  with  a  sign  on  the  door  in 
big  black  letters,  that  women  would  have  better 
sense  than  to  come  crashing  into  a  physical  cul- 
ture studio  at  all  hours.  Most  of  'em  do,  too, 
but  there  are  enough  who  don't  to  make  it  inter- 
estin'  —  stray  stenographers  trailin'  down  new 
jobs,  and  young  ladies  collectin'  for  various 
war  funds,  or  huntin'  for  Mme.  Riley,  the  cor- 
setiere,  whose  place  is  across  the  street.  But 
generally  they  dash  out  again  about  as  quick 
as  they  dodge  in,  mostly  without  stoppin'  to 
explain,  'specially  if  Swifty  happens  to  be 
loafin'  around  the  front  office  in  his  low-cut 
gym  suit. 

Not  this  one,  though.  Instead  of  retreatin' 
panicky,  or  even  answerin'  my  snappy  hail,  she 

348 


WHAT  AUNT  ABBIE  HAS  COMING     249 

stands  there  quiet,  sizin'  us  both  up.  She's  a 
high,  skimpy  built  party,  with  a  waist  about  a 
yard  long  and  a  neck  like  a  turkey.  Maybe  she 
wasn't  six  feet,  but  she  didn't  lack  much  of  it. 
Her  cheek-bones  are  kind  of  prominent;  like- 
wise her  upper  front  teeth ;  and  one  of  her  eyes 
don't  exactly  track  with  the  other. 

"Yes?"  I  goes  on,  winkin'  humorous  at 
Swifty.  "  What  '11  it  be  ?" 

At  that  she  comes  out  of  the  spell.  "How  do 
I  find  Mr.  Zubel?"  she  demands. 

And  say,  hearin'  this  deep,  full  voice  come 
from  that  skinny  throat  almost  gives  me  the 
jumps.  It's  so  unexpected. 

"Eh?"  says  I.  "The  Honorable  Abe  Zubel? 
His  offices  are  on  the  next  floor  up." 

1 1 1  know, ' '  says  she.  ' '  And  I  suppose  he  is  in 
them  somewhere.  But  how  does  one  get  past 
that  frowzy-headed  person  in  the  outer  room?" 

I  hunches  my  shoulders  careless. 

"It's  by  me,"  says  I.  "What  I  don't  know 
about  theatrical  managers  in  general  and  Mr. 
Abe  Zubel  in  particular  is  amazin' .  I've  always 
understood,  though,  that  they  were  shy  birds. 
And  as  that's  the  limit  of  my  valuable  infor- 
mation, why ' ' 

Here  I  waves  invitin'  towards  the  fresh  air. 

She  hadn't  come  in  to  be  shunted  out  with  a 
mere  wave  of  the  hand,  though.  She  only  steps 
up  nearer  the  desk. 


250 

"You're  Professor  McCabe,  aren't  you?"  she 
asks. 

"You've  guessed  it,"  says  I. 

* '  Then,  with  rooms  right  on  the  next  floor  to 
his,"  she  goes  on,  "you  ought  to  know  of  some 
way  that  I  could  get  to  see  him. ' ' 

"Young  lady,"  I  protests,  "didn't  I " 

"Tuttle  is  my  name,"  she  cuts  in.  "Pansy 
Tuttle." 

Course,  that  chokes  off  the  sarcastic  remark  I 
was  about  to  spring.  For,  while  she  says  it 
quiet  and  easy  enough,  some  way  she  makes  you 
stop  and  listen  to  her. 

"Oh,  yes,  "say  si.  "Pansy  Tuttle,  eh?  You 
did  say  Pansy,  didn't  you?" 

She  nods. 

"Hollyhock  would  have  suited  better,  I  sup- 
pose," says  she,  "but  I  was  quite  small  when 
they  chose  Pansy.  Go  on;  smile.  I'm  quite 
used  to  it. 

"I've  spent  nearly  a  week  tryin'  to  get  in 
touch  with  Mr.  Zubel,"  she  goes  on,  "and  now 
somebody  must  help." 

"But  why  me?"  says  I. 

"Why  not  you?"  asks  Pansy. 

That  brings  out  a  snicker  from  Swifty. 

"Young  lady "  says  I. 

"Tuttle,"  says  she. 

"Well,  then,  Miss  Tuttle,"  I  begins  again, 


WHAT  AUNT  ABBIE  HAS  COMING     251 

"maybe  it  ain't  occurred  to  you  that  I  might 
have  something  better  to  do  than " 

"You  don't  seem  remarkably  busy,"  says 
she,  glancin'  at  my  elevated  heels. 

"Camouflage,"  says  I. 

"If  you  mean  you're  only  pretending  not  to 
be  busy,  you  do  it  very  well,"  says  she.  "But 
surely  it  wouldn't  take  you  long  to  suggest  some 
way  that " 

" See  here !"  says  I.  "If  Zubel  don 't  want  to 
see  you,  I  can't  think  of  any  way  you  can  make 
him." 

"Then,"  says  Miss  Tuttle,  settlin'  back  in 
her  chair,  "I  shall  wait  here  until  you  do." 

' 1  Wha-a-a-at ! "  I  gasps. 

"Oh,  you  will  have  a  splendid  idea  pres- 
ently, ' '  says  she. 

"Say,  what  is  this,  a  siege?"  says  I. 

She  nods  and  favors  me  with  a  quirky  smile. 
It's  about  as  folksy  and  chummy  a  smile  as  I 
ever  saw  executed.  And  say,  when  she  does  it 
that  face  of  hers  changes  so  you'd  hardly  know 
her  for  the  same  party. 

"Tryin'  to  land  a  typist's  job  with  him,  eh?" 
I  asks. 

"Oh,  no,"  says  Miss  Tuttle.  "Mr.  Zubel  is 
engaging  people  for  a  new  musical  review.  I 
want  a  place  in  the  chorus." 

"You — you  do?"  says  I,  gawpin'  at  her. 

Course,  drif tin '  up  and  down  the  stairs,  I  see 


252     SHOETY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

some  odd  specimens  that  are  candidates  for  the 
hi-yi-yip  ranks.  But  this  Miss  Pansy  Tuttle 
looks  about  as  much  like  a  chorus  girl  recruit 
as  I  do  like  a  lounge  lizard.  She's  the  kind 
that  would  be  safe  anywhere. 

"Say,"  I  goes  on,  " where 'd  you  drift  in 
from,  anyway?" 

"Cohasset,"  says  she. 

"Co-which?"  says  I.  "Eh?  Oh,  yes!  Is  it 
in  Indiana  or  Maine?" 

"Massachusetts,"  says  Pansy. 

"Good!"  says  I.  "In  that  case  you  can  be 
home  by  to-morrow  morning. ' ' 

Pansy  smiles  and  shakes  her  head. 

"I've  left  Cohasset  forever,"  says  she.  "I 
came  to  New  York  to  go  on  the  stage,  and  I 
mean  to  do  it." 

She  don't  say  it  cocky  or  braggy;  just  states 
it  quiet  and  determined,  like  she  was  tellin'  cook 
how  she  'd  have  her  eggs. 

"Listens  like  you  meant  it,"  says  I.  "Are 
you  always  like  that?" 

"It's  the  Tuttle  way,  I  suppose,"  says  she. 

"Oh!"  says  I.  "You're  from  one  of  them 
old  baked-bean  families,  eh,  such  as  we  read 
about?" 

"We  go  back  far  enough,  goodness  knows," 
says  she.  "I  have  been  told  that  father  was  a 
direct  descendant  from  Deacon  Jedediah  Tuttle, 
who  was  expelled  from  Plymouth  colony  in  six- 


WHAT  AUNT  ABBIE  HAS  COMING     253 

teen  seventy  something  for  taking  off  his  boots 
in  church.  We've  been  doing  such  things  ever 
since.  Father,  for  instance,  was  educated  for 
the  law ;  but  after  losing  his  first  case  he  never 
went  into  his  office  again.  Instead,  he  started 
in  to  make  a  living  as  a  locksmith  and  bell- 
hanger.  The  village  boys  used  to  call  him 
'Hellbanger  Tuttle,'  so  he  had  it  painted  on 
his  cart,  and  kept  it  there  in  defiance  of  the 
selectmen,  who  tried  to  make  him  paint  it  out. 
And  I — well,  I'm  a  Tuttle,  you  see." 

"I  get  a  glimmer,"  says  I.  "You  got  to  do 
something  different,  too.  But  why  not  tackle 
something  easy?  Why  get  the  chorus-girl 
bug?" 

Pansy  shrugs  her  shoulders. 

"It  isn't  that  I'm  stage-struck,"  says  she. 
"It — it's — well,  if  you  must  know,  it  is  the  only 
thing  I  can  do  that  will  really  satisfy  Aunt 
Abbie." 

Naturally,  that  leaves  me  with  my  mouth 
open,  so  Miss  Tuttle  goes  on  to  explain.  This 
Aunt  Abbie  was  someone  she'd  been  livin'  with 
ever  since  she  was  sixteen.  She's  a  well 
meanin'  old  girl,  Auntie,  so  far  as  that  goes. 
She  had  lots  of  good  points — swell  cook,  Al 
housekeeper,  strong  on  church  work,  and  her 
plum  preserves  couldn't  be  beat.  But  her 
tongue-brake  wouldn't  hold. 

"Suppose  you  had  to  live  with  someone," 


254     SHOETY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

goes  on  Miss  Tuttle,  ''who  was  forever  and 
everlastingly  discussing  your  faults  and  fail- 
ures, your  weaknesses  and  your  shortcomings? 
That's  what  I  used  to  get  from  Aunt  Abbie. 
Now,  I  am  fully  aware  that  I'm  plain,  to  say 
the  least.  Yet  it  wasn't  cheering  to  be  told,  at 
least  once  every  twenty-four  hours,  that  my 
chin  wasn't  what  it  should  be,  or  that  the  cast 
in  my  eye  shower  plainer  when  I  was  tired. 
And  it  didn't  help  to  be  eternally  assured  that 
I  was  cut  out  for  an  old  maid. ' ' 

"Oh,  well,"  says  I,  "we  all  have  to  have 
relations." 

"Aunt  Abbie  was  more  than  that,"  says 
Pansy.  ' '  She  was  an  affliction.  And  the  worst 
of  it  was  that  she  was  not  satisfied  to  say  such 
things  to  me  in  private.  At  sewing  circles,  at 
church  sociables,  at  little  afternoon  gatherings 
for  tea  and  cake  and  gossip,  I  was  dished  up — 
oh,  yes,  rather  entertainingly,  I  admit.  'Yes/ 
Aunt  Abbie  would  end  up  with,  'when  Pansy 
•gets  too  old  to  sing  in  the  choir  or  give  music 
lessons,  she  '11  open  a  tea-room  in  the  old  house 
here,  and  sell  braided  rugs  and  bayberry 
candles  to  the  summer  folks.'  And  they  would 
all  nod  their  heads  as  if  it  had  been  settled. 

"But  it  hasn't.  I  despise  tea-rooms.  I 
loathe  bayberry  candles.  I  may  have  to  stay 
an  old  maid,  but  I'm  not  going  to  be  that  kind. 
Not  while  I'm  a  Tuttle.  Not  while  there's  any 


WHAT  AUNT  ABBIE  HAS  COMING     255 

hope  of  escape.  I've  gotten  this  far,  anyway. 
I'm  supposed  to  be  visiting  a  cousin  in  Port- 
land— and  here  I  am.  More  than  that,  here  I 
stay  until  I  have  given  Aunt  Abbie  and  all  her 
friends  something  that  they  can  talk  about  until 
their  jaws  ache.  So  there!" 

She  straightens  back  in  her  chair,  smooths 
the  ugly  brown  plaid  dress  over  her  knees  with 
her  long  fingers,  and  gives  me  another  of  them 
quirky  smiles. 

4 'Miss  Tuttle,"  says  I,  "I  get  you.  You're 
out  to  hand  Auntie  a  jolt,  and  I  guess  jumpin' 
from  a  church  choir  into  the  chorus  would 
do  the  trick.  And  all  I  got  to  say  is,  go  to 
it." 

' '  Thank  you,  Mr.  McCabe, ' '  says  she. 

"Still,"  I  adds,  "I  don't  see  how  I  can  help 
you  with  Abe  ZubeL  Honest,  I  don't.  For,  if 
you  don't  mind  my  savin'  so,  you  ain't  just  the 
style  they  pick  out.  He's  sure  to  turn  you 
down. ' ' 

"Perhaps,"  says  she.  "But  I  want  him  to 
hear  what  I  have  to  say  first.  It  wouldn't 
hurt  him  to  listen,  would  it?" 

"That's  reasonable  enough,"  says  I; 
"but " 

"I'll  tell  you,"  breaks  in  Miss  Tuttle. 
1 '  Send  for  him  to  come  down  here. ' ' 

"Eh?"  says  I,  gawpin'. 

"He  knows  you,  doesn't  he?"  she  goes  on. 


256     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

"He  would  think Well,  never  mind.  He'd 

come.  And  that  seems  to  be  my  only  chance. 
Just  think  of  my  having  to  go  back  to  Aunt 
Abbie." 

"You  win,"  says  I.  "Hey,  Swifty!  Go  up 
and  tell  Zubel  that  Professor  McCabe  wants 
him  to  come  down  here  right  away.  If  he  asks 
why,  give  him  one  of  them  nobody  home  looks 
of  yours  and  do  a  repeat.  Get  me  ? ' ' 

Swifty  grins,  which  is  a  sure  sign  he's  rootin* 
for  Pansy. 

Sure  enough,  too,  in  a  couple  of  minutes  back 
he  comes,  towin'  Mr.  Abe  Zubel.  For  a  party 
who  has  his  name  printed  so  conspicuous  on 
the  bill-boards,  Abe  ain't  impressive  to  view. 
There's  only  about  five  feet  one  of  him  up  and 
down,  and  a  little  less  from  east  to  west.  Also, 
the  top  of  his  head  is  squared  off  graceful,  like 
the  roof  of  a  freight-car,  with  about  as  much 
hair  on  it.  He  spots  Pansy,  sittin'  over  there 
by  the  desk,  right  off  the  bat.  And  just  from 
one  glance  at  the  back  of  her  head  he  seems 
to  work  up  suspicions. 

"Veil?"  says  he,  cockin'  his  head  on  one  side. 
"You  vant  to  see  me,  Professor,  and  you  can't 
climb  the  stairs!" 

"Not  exactly  the  idea,"  says  L  "It's  the 
young  lady. ' ' 

"Ach!"  he  snorts.  "So  you  got  a  friend 
too?  They  all  got  one.  Yes,  even  the  boot- 


WHAT  AUNT  ABBIE  HAS  COMING     257 

black  on  the  corner.  But  they  should  see  Mr. 
[Werner  first.  What  does  he  tell  her,  eh?" 

"The  one  with  the  frizzly  hair?"  says  I. 
"Why,  he  tells  her  she  won't  do,  I  expect. 
But " 

With  that  he  turns  for  a  quick  exit.  But 
Swif  ty  Joe  is  quicker.  He  puts  his  back  against 
the  door.  Zubel  almost  butts  into  him. 

"One  side,  low-brow!"  snaps  Abie. 

"Ah,  why  the  panic,  old  slate-roof?"  says 
Swifty,  glarin'  down  at  him.  "Just  come,  ain't 
yer?  Can't  yer  stick  an  ear  out  for  the  lady  a 
minute  or  so?" 

At  which  Pansy  catches  her  cue,  rejoints  her- 
self into  her  full  five  feet  ten  and  joins  the 
group. 

"Please,  Mr.  Zubel,"  she  begins,  "can't  you 
use  me  somewhere  in  your  new  piece  ? ' ' 

Abie  stares  at  her  bug-eyed,  takin'  in  all  the 
details  of  her  build — the  juttin'  front  teeth,  the 
periscope  neck  effect,  and  so  on. 

"You?"  he  gurgles  throaty.  "Use  you? 
Am  I  bug-house  completely?  No,  no,  no!" 

"But  why  couldn't  you?"  asks  Miss  Tuttle, 
steady  and  quiet. 

I  knew  about  what  was  comin'  then.  I'd 
heard  more  or  less  of  how  rough  Zubel  was  with 
his  show  people,  'specially  women. 

"Why?"  he  snarls,  rollin'  his  eyes  and 
workin'  his  heavy  jaws.  "Young  woman,  one 


258     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

of  the  songs  we're  going  to  do  calls  for  the 
whole  chorus  as  diving  Venuses.  Veil?  How 
would  you  look  as  a  diving  Venus?  Hey? 
You'd  be  a  joke." 

"Aren't  you  looking  for  jokes!"  she  asks. 
"It  strikes  me  that  as  a  diving  Venus  I " 

With  that,  she  hunches  up  one  shoulder, 
sticks  her  long  arms  out  awkward,  with  her 
fingers  spread,  and  throws  him  one  of  her  re- 
verse-English smiles. 

And  I'll  bet  that  Zubel  himself  couldn't  tell 
you  now  what  crisp  come-back  he  was  about  to 
counter  with.  For  he  never  got  it  out.  Just 
then  we  hears  this  spluttery,  choky  sound  over 
by  the  door. 

It  comes  from  Swifty  Joe.  You  might  think 
he  was  havin'  a  fit,  but  he's  only  registerin' 
mirth.  Pansy  had  scored  her  first  hit. 

Another  thing  I've  heard  about  Abe  Zubel  is 
that  he's  the  sportiest  plunger  of  the  whole 
producin'  bunch.  I  forget  whether  it's  four  or 
five  really  new  acts  that  have  been  tried  out  in 
musical  shows  durin'  the  past  ten  years.  Any- 
way, they  credit  Abe  with  havin'  been  the  first 
to  take  a  chance  on  most  of  'em.  He  may  be 
no  mental  Colossus,  but  he's  a  shifty  thinker. 
Them  restless  little  shoe-button  eyes  of  his 
flashes  back  and  forth  between  Swifty  and 
Miss  Tuttle  only  a  couple  of  times  before  he's 
made  the  connection. 


WHAT  AUNT  ABBIE  HAS  COMING     259 

< '  Hah ! ' '  says  he.  « '  Hold  it !  Now  that  busi- 
ness from  the  side  of  your  mouth  again.  Good ! 
.Very  good!  It  would  get  'em.  Yes.  But  it 
would  be  in  the  wrong  place.  It  isn't  a  funny 
song." 

1  '  That's  too  bad,  isn't  it?"  says  Pansy. 

"No!"  snaps  Zubel.  " It  don't  matter.  Not 

at  all.  The  words Bah!  We  can  make 

'em  funny.  The  music,  too.  It's  only  the  cos- 
tumes that  cost,  and  they're  all  ordered.  But 
see  here :  can  you  sing? ' ' 

"I  make  my  living  that  way,"  says  Pansy. 

"Let's  hear,"  demands  Zubel.  "Oh,  any- 
thing— la-la-la. ' ' 

She's  right  there  with  the  vocal  stuff,  Miss 
Tuttle.  And  with  a  speedy  performance,  too. 
Never  even  plays  for  an  openin'  but  takes  him 
at  his  word  and  proceeds  to  trill  out  the  la-la- 
la's,  trippin'  light  across  the  floor  as  she  does 
it,  and  almost  throwin'  Swifty  into  another  con- 
vulsion by  that  burlesque  finish  of  hers. 

"Fine!"  roars  Zubel,  clappin'  his  fat  hands. 
"We'll  have  that  Venus  song  changed  to  a 
comic,  and  we'll  use  it  to  close  the  second  act. 
You'll  do  it  in  black  silk  Annettes,  as  a  solo, 
with  forty  show  girls  in  white  as  a  background, 
and  if  it  ain't  a  sure-fire  skookum,  then  I  don't 
know  a  pinochle  deck  from  a  cheese  sandwich. 
Come !  I  want  you  to  meet  Mr.  Werner." 

And  say,  I  guess  Abie's  picked  another  win- 


260     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

ner.  The  other  day  he  breezes  in  with  this 
bulletin  about  the  try-out  in  Troy. 

"Honest,"  says  Abie,  tappin'  me  enthusi- 
astic on  the  chest,  "she's  a  female  De  Wolf 
Hopper.  Funny!  Why,  they  begin  to  laugh 
so  soon  as  she  comes  on.  And  they  never  stop. 
I've  got  to  fill  in  a  week  in  Boston  with  her,  and 
then — Broadway  for  a  two-year  run." 

"Boston  first,  eh?"  says  I.  "But  say,  does 
she  really  wear  them — er — that " 

' '  Wait ! ' '  says  Abie.  "  I  '11  send  you  down  the 
new  two-sheet  of  her  in  costume.  It's  a  per- 
fect likeness." 

Swifty  Joe  was  stretchin'  his  neck  over  my 
shoulder  when  I  unrolled  the  poster. 

"Swifty,"  says  I,  doin'  it  up  hasty,  "run  out 
and  get  me  a  map  of  Massachusetts." 

* '  Map  ? ' '  says  he.    ' '  What 's  the  idea ! " 

"Why,"  says  I,  "seein'  how  Pansy's  usin' 
her  own  name  and  all  makes  it  interestin'  to 
locate  Aunt  Abbie.  I  want  to  see  how  near 
Tremont  Street  this  Cohasset  place  is." 

Yes,  we  saw.  Just  a  trolley  ride  out.  And 
now  I'm  figurin'  if  it  wouldn't  be  worth  while 
takin'  the  trip,  just  on  the  chance  of  spottin* 
Auntie  at  a  matinee. 


XVI 

SITTING  IN    WITH   JIMMY 

MAYBE  you  'd  say  that  the  odd  part  of  it  was 
my  being  in  the  Pluto ria  at  all.  Well,  it  ain't 
my  reg'lar  luncheon  joint,  I'll  admit,  for  I 
know  of  several  places  where  you  can  get  a 
small  steak  without  payin'  for  a  whole  steer. 
In  fact,  I  wasn't  plannin'  to  eat  there  at  all. 
But  there  are  days,  like  when  I'm  sportin'  a 
new  spring  suit  and  an  early  straw  lid,  that  I 
feel  like  driftin'  in  among  the  idle  rich,  givin' 
'em  the  once  over  and  duckin'  out  again.  It 
can  be  done,  you  know,  without  partin'  with  a 
nickel.  The  sensations  are  something  like 
climbing  into  the  pilot's  seat  of  a  big  bombing 
plane  and  then  stepping  out  again. 

At  the  Plutoria  I'd  pushed  in  through  the 
main  entrance,  crossed  the  marble  lobby  and 
was  just  passin'  the  dizzy  blondes  guardin'  the 
hat  check  department  of  the  Pink  Grill  when  I 
gets  this  hearty  hail : 

"Well,  well!  Shorty  McCabe,  eh?  How's 
the  boy?" 

It's  roared  out  loud  and  rollin',  and  was  like 
bein'  paged  by  megaphone.  Three  or  four 

261 


262     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

parties  turns  curious  to  see  who  answers  to 
such  a  name  and  I  expect  I  was  blushin'  in  my 
modest,  shrinkin'- violet  way  until  I  spots  this 
bird  in  the  frock  coat  and  the  lavender  tie. 

"Huh!"  says  I.  " Might  know  it  was  you, 
Jimmy  Fincke,  by  the  steam  siren  whisper. 
What  you  think  you're  doin' — announcin'  a 
train?" 

"Same  old  Shorty,"  he  chuckles,  poundin' 
me  on  the  back. 

"Maybe,"  says  I.  "But  you  ain't  the  same 
old  Jimmy." 

"I  should  hope  not,"  says  he. 

If  that  was  a  wish  it  had  come  true.  For 
the  J.  Fincke  who  used  to  run  a  garage  up  on 
the  Post  Road  was  a  ruddy-faced,  clear-eyed 
husk  who  was  generally  costumed  in  a  blue 
jumper  and  overalls  with  a  smooch  or  two  of 
grease  on  him  somewhere.  He  was  always 
ready  to  hand  out  a  line  of  josh,  boss  a  tire 
shiftin'  job  and  charge  you  double  on  the  time 
slip.  He  had  one  of  those  round  honest-to- 
goodness  faces,  a  deep  boomin'  laugh,  and  if 
you  didn't  allow  for  the  shifty  eyes  or  have  any 
prejudice  against  a  cleft  chin  you  might  believe 
he  was  as  good  as  he  said  he  was.  Anyway,  he 
was  popular  with  his  customers,  and  for  a 
garage  man,  that's  sayin'  a  good  deal. 

Course,  he  was  a  yawp.  You  know,  noisy. 
Everybody's  friend.  Got  away  with  it,  too,  in 


SITTING  IN  WITH  JIMMY         263 

most  cases.  But  if  you  knew  him  long  enough 
it  gradually  began  to  dawn  on  you  that  the  one 
particular  party  he  was  out  to  help  most  was 
Jimmy  Fincke.  'Specially  after  you'd  paid  a 
few  repair  bills.  Still  there  was  a  lot  to  like 
about  Jimmy.  So  he  made  good.  I  watched 
his  shop  grow  from  a  roadside  shack  to  a  big, 
double-breasted  concrete  affair  with  two  stor- 
age floors  and  a  fancy  office. 

I  never  knew  until  later  how  much  Mrs. 
Fincke  had  to  do  with  buildin'  up  the  business. 
Used  to  see  her  in  there  evenin's  working  on 
the  books,  but  it  wasn't  until  Jimmy  came  to 
me  with  his  financin'  scheme,  when  he  wanted  to 
put  up  the  new  buildin'  that  I  found  out  it  was 
the  wife  who  was  the  backbone  of  the  enter- 
prise. Jimmy  really  didn't  think  he  could 
swing  the  proposition,  which  included  interest 
on  a  $25,000  loan  and  a  big  overhead  load.  But 
when  Mrs.  Fincke  had  sketched  out  her  plans 
and  showed  me  on  the  books  the  business  they'd 
done  durin'  the  last  year,  I  helped  'em  get  their 
notes  endorsed. 

She  had  some  head  on  her,  Mrs.  Jimmy. 
Nothing  ornamental,  but  not  such  a  bad  looker 
at  that.  Daytimes  she  put  in  eight  hours  reg'- 
lar  as  private  secretary  to  the  manager  of  the 
Nut  &  Bolt  works,  a  job  she  still  held  onto  even 
after  she  married  Jimmy.  Then  evenin's  she'd 
hustle  home,  get  dinner,  and  drive  down  to  the 


264     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

garage  with  Jimmy,  where  she'd  stay  until  11 
or  after  postin'  the  books  and  givin'  him 
pointers.  Course,  after  they  branched  out  so 
big  she  didn't  have  to  do  the  bookkeepin'  her- 
self, but  she  was  there  a  lot,  keepin'  an  eye  on 
things. 

And  the  next  I  heard  was  that  Jimmy  had 
sold  out  to  one  of  these  chain  garage  corpora- 
tions and  had  bought  a  controllin'  interest  in 
the  Nut  &  Bolt  concern.  That  was  durin'  the 
second  year  of  the  big  war,  when  we  were  just 
beginnin'  to  find  out  where  we  were  at,  and 
the  first  war-baby  plungers  were  gettin'  in  their 
fine  work.  Jimmy  was  one  of  the  early  birds. 
It  seems  Mrs.  Fincke  was  hep  to  the  fact  that 
the  Works  stood  to  pull  down  some  big  shell 
contracts  from  the  English  and  French,  and  be- 
fore the  deal  was  closed  she  and  Jimmy  had 
bought  in.  From  then  on  it  was  just  one  bold 
jump  after  another,  but  always  something  to  do 
with  war  contracts.  And  by  the  time  the  rest 
of  us  was  worked  up  to  the  point  of  makin'  the 
world  safe  for  democracy  the  Finckes  knew  it 
was  safe  for  them  whatever  broke.  They  had 
dividends  rollin'  in  from  so  many  companies 
that  Mrs.  Jimmy  had  to  hire  a  private  secretary 
of  her  own.  As  for  Jimmy,  he  took  to  struttin' 
round  afternoons  in  a  frock  coat  and  throwin* 
dollar  tips  at  bell-hops. 

About  then  I  begun  to  lose  track  of  him. 


SITTING  IN  WITH  JIMMY         265 

Once  at  a  movie  show,  when  they  were  windin' 
up  a  Liberty  loan  drive,  I  heard  a  familiar 
voice  boom  out  something  about  taking  a 
$10,000  bond  if  ten  others  would  match  it  with 
hundreds.  And  I  had  to  smile  when  I  saw  it 
was  Jimmy.  He  was  a  patriot  and  didn't  care 
who  knew  it.  Not  a  rap.  I  think  he'd  gone  up 
on  the  stage  if  he'd  been  urged.  Another 
glimpse  I  had  of  him  was  durin'  Red  Cross 
week.  He  was  drivin'  down  Fifth  Avenue  in  a 
taxi  and  tossin'  new  silver  quarters  by  the 
handfuls  at  pretty  girl  collectors.  Outside  of 
them  two  times  though  I  hadn't  had  a  real  close- 
up  of  Jimmy  for  more'n  a  year  and  a  half. 
And  here  he  was  clawin'  me  on  the  shoulder  in 
the  Plutoria. 

"I  say  though,  old  man,"  he  goes  on,  "but 
this  is  a  piece  of  luck,  running  across  you.  Just 
the  one  I  wanted  to  see." 

"Ye-e-es?"  says  I.  "You'd  forgotten  the 
number  of  the  Physical  Culture  Studio,  had 
you?" 

"Not  me,"  says  Jimmy.  "Been  meaning  to 
drop  in.  But  to-day — say,  Shorty,  how  about 
having  lunch  with  me1?  Ah,  course  you  can. 
Don't  mind  waiting  around  half  an  hour  or  so 
first  do  you?  You  see — I — well,  the  fact  is, 
I'm  due  for  an  interview  with  someone  and  I'd 
kind  of  like  to  have  a  third  party  present,  'spe- 
cially an  old  friend  like  you." 


266     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

"Oh,  well!"  says  I.  "If  it's  a  case  of  wit- 
nessin'  your  signature  on  an  option,  or  some- 
thing like  that,  maybe  I  can. ' ' 

Jimmy  shakes  his  head  and  I  notice  them 
shifty  eyes  of  his  roamin'  restless  up  and  down 
the  corridor.  "Not  exactly,"  says  he.  "It — 
it's  with  Fannie." 

"What!"  says  I.    "Mrs.  Fincke!" 

"Why,  yes,"  says  he.  "That  is,  she's  the 
Mrs.  Fincke  you  knew." 

I  expect  I  must  have  been  gawpin'  at  him  by 
then.  "You  don't  mean  there's  a  new  one, 
Jimmy, ' ' 

He  nods  careless.  "Oh,  yes!"  says  he. 
"Hadn't  you  heard?  Why,  we  split  up  long 
ago — year  and  a  half.  Nobody's  fault  in  par- 
ticular only — well,  Fannie  couldn't  seem  to 
keep  up.  I  don't  know  as  you'll  understand. 
But  she  never  was  much  of  a  spender.  Always 
did  come  easy  to  me.  What's  the  good  of  a  lot 
of  money  if  you  can't  get  some  fun  out  of  it? 
Besides,  there's  certain  things  you're  expected 
to  do  when  you  get  in  with  our  crowd,  unless 
you  want  to  be  listed  as  a  piker.  None  of  this 
gentleman  farmer  stuff  for  me.  That  was 
Fannie 's  idea — way  up  state  somewhere.  Not 
for  Jimmy.  I  had  enough  of  that  when  I  was  a 
youngster.  Yea-uht  Now  I  don't  want  to  get 
any  closer  to  Nature  than  a  roof  garden  table 
under  a  potted  palm,  and  as  for  feeding  the 


SITTING  IN  WITH  JIMMY         267 

chickens — I  can  do  that  any  night  right  on 

Broadway.  So  we Well,  we  quit,  that's 

all." 

"Too  bad,  Jimmy,'7  says  I. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  says  he.  "Does  sound  sort 
of  raw  without  the  inside  dope.  Don't  remem- 
ber them  hats  Fannie  used  to  wear,  I  expect? 
Trimmed  'em  herself.  I  didn't  mind  when 
every  dollar  counted.  But  she  couldn't  break 
the  habit,  even  when  we  got  where  she  might 
have  cabled  to  Paris  for  a  ship  load.  I'd  see  the 
ladies  sizin'  her  up  and  nudgin'  each  other — 
wives  of  men  in  our  bunch.  And  her  dresses. 
Almost  as  bad.  Bargain  table  goods.  Made 
me  feel  like  a  cheap-skate.  I  tried  to  tell  her. 
No  use.  She  only  cut  out  going  around  with 
the  nice  people  I'd  got  in  with.  Well,  I  wasn't 
going  to  sit  home  and  twiddle  my  thumbs.  I 
went  without  her.  There  was  no  grand  smash, 
you  know.  We  just  fixed  it  up  about  gettin'  the 
decree,  and  each  went  our  own  way." 

"I  see,"  says  I.  "But  how  does  it  come  that 
you're  waitin'  here  for  her  now?" 

"Just  business,"  says  Jimmy.  "I'm  get- 
ting from  under,  closing  out.  And  there's  one 
plant  that  we  hold  joint  interest  in.  It's  a  case 
of  finding  out  how  much  she'll  give,  or  take. 
My  fool  lawyers  couldn't  fix  it  by  mail  and 
arranged  this.  Huh!  She's  half  an  hour  late 
now. ' ' 


268     SHOETY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

Jimmy  has  his  watch  out  and  is  pacin'  up 
and  down. 

"Ain't  seen  her  since,  eh?"  says  I.  "Must 
seem  kind  of  odd." 

"It  does,"  says  Jimmy.  "Honest,  Shorty, 
I  feel  like  I  did  once  when  I  was  kidded  into 
making  a  speech  at  a  banquet.  Stage  fright. 
How's  that  for  me,  eh?  Gettin'  shivers  up  the 
back  just  at  the  prospect  of  havin'  a  few  words 
with  Fannie.  I  shouldn't  have  picked  this 
place.  She — she'll  show  up  worse  than  ever 
here,  I  expect.  But  I  didn't  want  to  parade  her 
before  those  lawyers,  either.  I  wonder  what's 
delayed  her.  It  isn't  like  Fannie  to  be  late  for 
a  business  engagement.  That  was  one  thing  she 
drilled  into  me.  Besides,  if  she  don't  show  up 
pretty  soon  Beryl  is  liable  to  come  floatin'  in." 

"Beryl?"  says  I. 

"She's  the  new  Mrs.  Fincke,"  says  Jimmy. 
"We — we  live  here,  you  see,  and  she  often 
comes  down  to  join  me  at — at  breakfast.  I 
can't  get  used  to  this  tray  in  your  rooms  stunt. 
Oh,  I  can  go  the  coffee  and  rolls  there,  but  about 
this  time  of  day  I  want  a  reg'lar  feed  if  I'm 
going  to  last  through." 

See  what  I'd  been  rung  in  on  just  by 
strayin'  in  where  I  didn't  belong?  Triangle 
stuff.  And  say  I  could  think  up  a  lot  of  noon- 
day pastimes  more  cheerin'  than  this  sittin'  in 
at  a  reunion  with  an  ex-wife.  Still,  Fannie 


SITTING  IN  WITH  JIMMY         269 

never  had  been  one  of  the  weepy  kind.  I 
didn't  look  for  her  to  throw  any  cat-fits,  so  the 
affair  might  not  be  harrowin'.  Might  even  be 
sort  of  interestin'  to  see  how  she  took  it,  being 
in  the  discards.  Anyway,  I  was  in  for  it. 

We'd  camped  down  in  a  couple  of  them 
carved  high-back  chairs  that  must  have  been 
designed  'special  to  discourage  the  loafin'  habit 
and  I  had  a  chance  to  size  Jimmy  up  curious. 
He'd  developed  something  of  a  forward  spon- 
son,  as  the  gobs  say,  since  he'd  been  livin'  so 
high.  And  he  sure  wasn't  born  to  wear  a  frock 
coat.  No.  Now  in  his  old  blue  jeans  he'd  passed 
with  the  ladies  as  real  easy  to  look  at.  I  be- 
lieve it  was  Mrs.  McCabe  who  once  made  the 
remark  that  she  thought  Jimmy  would  be 
almost  handsome  if  he  could  be  properly 
dressed  up.  And  I  got  to  admit,  ain't  I,  that 
Sadie  ought  to  be  a  good  judge? 

But  this  hunch  of  hers  about  Jimmy  was  all 
wrong.  I  can't  say  how  it  was  exactly,  but  in 
that  tail  coat  he  looked  like  a  garage  man  who'd 
borrowed  some  weddin'  clothes.  Absolutely. 
And  as  if  he  was  struttin'  in  'em.  Besides,  he'd 
lost  the  color  from  his  cheeks,  he  had  the  be- 
ginnings of  bags  under  his  eyes,  and  above  the 
stiff  collar  the  chin  cleft  stood  out  more  promi- 
nent than  ever.  He  sure  was  accumulatin'  a 
case  of  nerves,  too. 

"Hang  it  all!"  says  he,  squimnin'  around  in 


270     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

his  chair,  watch  in  hand.  "Here  it  is  nearly 
12.30  and "  The  rest  was  almost  a  gasp. 

For  as  he  turns  to  stretch  his  neck  the  other 
way  there  she  is,  right  in  front  of  him.  I'd  seen 
her,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  before  he  had,  but  I 
hadn't  been  quite  sure.  You  see,  I  was  sort  of 
lookin'  for  a  tacky  appearin'  middle-aged 
woman,  dressed  all  in  black  most  likely,  and 
with  one  of  those  rummy  lookin'  home-made 
lids  that  he'd  been  describin'. 

But  say,  while  this  party  had  the  same  calm, 
serious  eyes  that  I  used  to  see  fixed  on  the  books 
in  J.  Fincke's  garage,  and  wore  the  same  neat 
brushed  hair,  there  sure  wasn't  anything  duddy 
about  her  costume.  Not  that  she  suggested 
havin'  just  stepped  out  of  a  fashion  review. 
It's  a  plain,  simple  tailored  effect  of  navy  blue 
with  a  straw  sailor  to  match.  But  some  way 
there's  plenty  of  zipp  to  the  way  it's  been  built 
on  her.  Looked  like  she 's  grown  into  it.  That 
kind  of  a  fit,  you  know.  I'd  never  mistrusted 
she  had  such  a  good  figure.  Why,  if  I  hadn't 
known  she  must  have  been  well  on  towards 
forty  I  might  have  guessed  that  she  was  any- 
where from  twenty-two  to  thirty.  No  more. 

Nor  is  she  luggin'  any  doleful,  cast-off-wife 
face  to  the  conference.  I  don't  know  that  I'd 
ever  seen  her  look  quite  so  chipper  and  chirky. 
As  she  spots  Jimmy  them  dark  placid  eyes  kind 
of  open  up  and  she  springs  an  easy  smile. 


SITTING  IN  WITH  JIMMY         271 

"Sorry  to  have  kept  you  waiting,  Jimmy,"  is 
her  greetin',  "but  you  simply  can't  depend 
upon  train  schedules  now,  can  you?  I've  been 
on  the  way  ever  since  last  night,  too.  I  do  hope 
you  can  give  me  some  luncheon  while  we're 
making  our  trade,  for  that  government  dining- 
car  breakfast  I  had  wasn't  worth  talking  about. 
Oh !  And  here  is  Professor  McCabe  with  you. 
How  nice !  Do  say  you'd  planned  luncheon  for 
three,  Jimmy. ' ' 

And  after  a  desperate  glance  at  me  Jimmy 
lied  cheerful  and  led  the  way  into  the  Pink 
Grill,  where  three  waiters  helped  us  get  settled 
at  a  window  table  with  a  big  bunch  of  flowers 
on  it.  I  couldn't  see,  either,  but  that  all  his 
worryin'  about  how  she'd  show  up  among  the 
other  lady  guests  at  the  Plutoria  was  more  or 
less  useless.  If  there  was  anyone  in  sight  who 
looked  and  acted  very  much  at  home  it  was 
Fannie. 

"Couldn't  we  have  the  floral  tribute  taken 
away,  Jimmy?"  she  suggests.  "I  want  to  get 
a  good  look  at  you.  There,  that's  better. 
M-m-m-m!  How  long  since  you've  been  wear- 
ing coats  like  that?  The  proper  thing,  I've  no 

doubt,  but Well,  I  suppose  it's  because 

I've  never  seen  you  in  one  before.  How's  the 
health,  Jimmy?" 

"Mine?"  says  he.    "Oh,  I'm  all  right." 

"That's  good,"  says  she.    "Heavier,  aren't 


you?  Quite  a  bit,  eh?  And  I'll  bet  you've  been 
keeping  late  hours.  Still  having  good  poker 
luck?  But  those  merry  little  midnight  suppers 
are  telling  on  you,  Jimmy.  I  can  see  by  your 
eyes.  Kunning  with  the  old  crowd,  eh?" 

"Hasn't  sent  me  to  a  hospital  yet,  you  see," 
comes  back  Jimmy.  "You're  looking  well, 
Fannie.  Got  the  farm,  I  suppose ? ' ' 

"A  perfect  whale,"  says  she.  "Three  hun- 
dred acres,  counting  woodland.  Only  ten  miles 
out  of  Cooperstown." 

"Only!"  echoes  Jimmy.  "How  does  that 
listen,  McCabe?  Ten  miles  out  of  Cooperstown. 
Good  Lord!  Isn't  it  kind  of  lonesome,  espe- 
cially at  night." 

"At  night  I'm  asleep,"  says  Fannie.  "And 

daytimes "Well,  besides  all  the  help,  I  have 

Myra  and  her  children." 

' '  Myra ! ' '    Jimmy  gets  out  husky.    ' l  You ! ' ' 

"Why  not,  Jimmy?"  asks  the  late  Mrs. 
Fincke.  "It's  nothing  to/ you  now,  is  it,  even 
if  she  is  your  sister?  And  you  know  we  didn't 
treat  her  quite  right  all  those  years.  We  might 
have  helped  more.  Oh,  yes,  we'll  admit  that 
Sam  wasn't  much  of  a  success  as  a  brother-in- 
law,  or  at  anything  else.  But  that  wasn't 
Myra's  fault.  We  shouldn't  have  blamed  her 
for  sticking  up  for  him,  either.  I  never  did, 
really.  So  when  I  heard  he'd  gone,  and  that 
she  was  left  with  those  three  kidlets — well,  I 


SITTING  IN  WITH  JIMMY         273 

went  straight  to  her  and  made  it  all  up.  She 
was  rather  bitter  about  it  at  first,  as  was  only 
natural.  She  'd  heard  about  our  luck,  you  see ; 
and  she  a  waitress  in  a  quick  lunch  place  in 
Buffalo.  But  I  won  her  around,  apologized  for 
both  of  us,  and  got  her  to  come  with  me  to  the 
new  farm.  There  was  none  of  my  own  folks  I 
could  get  hold  of." 

"Huh!"  says  Jimmy.  "Three  kids.  I 
should  say  you  'd  got  your  hands  full  now. ' ' 

"Why,  I'm  having  the  time  of  my  life  with 
those  youngsters,  Jimmy,"  says  she.  "I  sup- 
pose they'll  have  to  have  a  governess  in  the 
fall,  but  I'm  putting  it  off  until  then.  That 
little  Sam  is  the  brightest  boy.  And  wise! 
He's  only  nine,  but  he  began  selling  papers  on 
the  street  when  he  was  six,  and  what  he  didn't 

pick  up Well,  I  found  him  showing  the 

boss  dairyman  how  to  shoot  craps  one  day. 
You  ought  to  see  him  drive  a  motor  truck 
around  the  place.  Says  he  means  to  run  a 
garage  when  he  grows  up,  like  his  Uncle  Jimmy. 
One  of  the  little  girls  is  going  to  be  a  beauty. 
Oh,  I  have  lots  besides  my  Holsteins  to  make 
life  on  the  farm  worth  while.  Honest,  Jimmy, 
I'm  just  beginning  to  live." 

"It's  a  great  life  if  you  don't  weaken,"  says 
he.  "But  it  wouldn't  suit  me  worth  a  cent." 

"I  know,"  says  Fannie.  "The  bright  lights 
for  you,  Jimmy.  Oh,  welll"  And  she  tackles 


274     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

an  order  of  shad-roe  and  bacon  enthusiastic. 

I  could  see  Jimmy  watchin'  her  with  sort  of 
a  queer  look  in  his  eyes.  I  had  a  notion  maybe 
it  was  kind  of  a  wistful  look.  Maybe  it  wasn't. 
He  wouldn't  have  been  so  foolish  in  the  head 
if  it  had  been  that  sort,  for  she  must  have  been 
rather  a  good  pal  to  him  all  them  years  when 
they  was  savin'  and  plannin'  together — good- 
natured,  cheerful,  full  of  sand.  A  clean-cut, 
wholesome,  level-headed  woman  she  seems  now, 
with  more  pep  and  fun  in  her  than  ever. 
Jimmy's  mornin'  appetite  didn't  appear  to  be 
quite  so  keen  as  he'd  bragged.  Now  and  then 
he'd  throw  a  skittish  look  out  towards  the  cor- 
ridor. 

They  got  through  their  business  talk  while 
Fannie  was  finishin'  her  plate  of  strawberries 
and  cream  and  Jimmy  was  downin'  his  second 
cocktail. 

•  "111  tell  you,  Jimmy,"  she  says,  "you'd 
much  better  turn  over  your  holdings  to  me,  for 
there's  a  minority  crowd  in  there  that's  plan- 
ning to  put  something  over  on  us.  I  know  their 
game  and  can  block  it.  I'll  pay  on  yesterday's 
closing  quotations,  whatever  those  were.  That 
right?  Then  just  write  out  something  to  that 
effect  and  we'll  call  it  settled." 

He  was  busy  with  his  fountain-pen  when  there 
came  this  burst  of  high  squeally  giggles  and  I 
looked  up  to  see  a  mixed  quartette  of  four  bear- 


SITTING  IN  WITH  JIMMY         275 

ing  down  on  us.  They  were  a  good  deal  of  the 
kind  you'd  expect  to  see  in  the  Plutoria's  Pink 
Grill — the  men  of  the  lounge  lizard  type,  and 
the  girls  good  runnin'  mates  for  'em. 

The  one  in  the  lead  is  a  slim,  big-eyed,  pert 
specimen  of  the  squab  family.  Her  complexion 
is  a  little  too  vivid  for  daylight  exhibition,  but 
I  expect  she'd  put  the  make-up  on  in  kind  of  a 
hurry.  Her  permanent  hair  wave  had  stood  the 
test  of  a  short  night's  sleep,  however,  and  her 
shaved  eyebrows  hadn't  been  rumpled  at  all. 
She 's  dressed  fancy  and  frilly,  too.  The  curved 
feather  on  her  hat  must  have  stood  up  two  feet 
in  the  back.  Also  her  fingers  sparkled  like  a 
pawnbroker's  window.  You  could  guess  that 
she  was  a  warm  baby,  all  right. 

" Hello!"  says  I.  "Some  cabaret  must  have 
let  out  late." 

At  which  Jimmy  glances  up.  I  could  see  his 
mouth  corners  drop  and  his  eyes  go  stary. 
But  he  didn't  have  time  to  say  a  word.  Next 
thing  I  knew  the  saucy  young  thing  had  tripped 
right  up  and  was  rumplin'  his  hair. 

"Old  Pokey!"  says  she.  "Got  that  last 
night's  grouch  with  you  still?  What  do  I  care 
if  you  have!  Ferdy's  going  to  take  me  out  to 

Primrose  Inn,  even  if  you  won't,  and Oh! 

Who  'sail  this?" 

She  hadn  't  taken  much  notice  of  me,  but  when 
,she  spots  Fannie  it's  a  different  matter.  She 


276     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

was  givin'  her  the  once  over  and  repeat.  Also, 
it  was  up  to  Jimmy  to  separate  himself  from  a 
few  remarks. 

"There,  there,  Beryl!"  says  he  peevish. 
" Didn't  I  tell  you  I  had  a  business  engage- 
ment?" 

"Did  you,  Jimmy,  boy?"  says  she.  "And 
did  you  think  I'd  fall  for  it?  Come  now.  Open 
up.  Who's  the  lady!" 

If  Jimmy  could  think  as  quick  as  he  can  talk 
loud  he  might  have  passed  it  off  graceful.  But 
the  thing  boing  batted  up  to  him  so  sudden  that 
way  he  kind  of  got  his  conversation  works  gear- 
bound.  And  after  he'd  made  some  gurgly 
noises  that  didn't  convey  much  of  anything 
Fannie  comes  to  his  rescue. 

"I  am  Mrs.  Fincke,"  says  she,  smilin'. 

' '  The  devil  you  are ! ' '  says  the  other,  in  her 
pouty,  impetuous  manner.  "I  like  that,  I  must 
say — not. ' ' 

And  as  it  seemed  to  be  my  turn,  I  puts  in: 
"Mrs.  Fincke,  Number  One." 

"Oh!"  It  comes  from  Beryl's  rouged  lips 
explosive.  "Why — why,  Jimmy  has  always  let 

on  that  you  were But  he  always  was  a 

good  liar.  Hey,  Jimmy,  whaddye  mean  by  that 
stuff?  Eh?"  The  shake  she  was  giving  him 
was  more  than  playful. 

"And  you?"  asks  Fannie.    "May  I  ask " 


SITTING  IN  WITH  JIMMY         277 

' '  Sure  you  can, ' '  breaks  in  Beryl.  "  I  'm  Mrs. 
Jimmy  Fincke  myself." 

1 '  Really ! ' '  Fannie  takes  it  without  a  quiver. 
"Pardon  me  for  being  so  stupid.  I — I  might 
have  guessed  he  would.  But  he  hadn't  men- 
tioned it,  you  see." 

"He's  a  great  little  forgetter  when  he  tries. 
Eh,  Jimmy  boy?  "  and  once  more  she  rumples 
his  hair. 

I  wish  Jimmy  hadn't  been  starin'  so  dazed  all 
the  time.  It  might  have  done  him  good  if  he 
could  have  seen  the  two  of  'em  side  by  side,  as 
I  saw  'em.  But,  then,  maybe  his  view  would 
have  been  different.  I  must  say  that  to  me 
Beryl  looked  mighty  cheap  and  flashy  when 
stacked  up  against  Fannie. 

About  then  the  trio  in  the  background,  who 
couldn't  have  had  any  hint  as  to  what  the 
chatter  was  all  about,  got  impatient. 

"I  say,  Beryl,"  calls  one  of  the  young  gents 
with  a  shadow  mustache  and  slick  hair,  "how 
about  getting  started?" 

Beryl  don't  even  turn  around.  She  glances 
once  at  Jimmy  and  then  gives  Fannie  another 
shrewd  stare. 

"Nothing  doing,  Ferdy.  Run  along,"  she 
tells  him.  "I'm  going  to  stick  around." 

"Oh,  but  you  mustn't  let  me  interfere  with 
your  plans,"  puts  in  Fannie.  "Jimmy  and  I 


are  all  through  with  our  business.  Did  you  sign 
it,  Jimmy?  Then  that's  all  and  I  must  be  go- 
ing. I've  heaps  of  shopping  to  do  before  I  start 
back  for  the  farm.  And  it's  been — er — inter- 
esting to  meet  you — Mrs.  Fincke." 

"I  expect  it  has?"  sneers  Beryl. 

"And  I  hope  I  haven't  spoiled  any  party," 
adds  Fannie.  "You  must  go  right  ahead." 

"Thanks,"  says  Beryl,  slippin'  into  the  chair 
the  other  was  leavin'.  "I'll  stick  around." 

I  expect  she  did,  too.  There  was  that  kind  of 
look  in  her  eyes.  But  I  ain't  sure.  It  seemed 
to  me  a  swell  time  to  be  slidin'  out  myself. 
Which  I  did.  This  triangle  stuff  may  be  all 
right  to  watch  on  a  movie  screen,  but  I  don't 
care  for  it  as  an  accompaniment  to  lunch. 


xvn 

:TEAZB  BEANS"  FOB  BUCKY 


I  WAS  tellin'  Sadie  about  our  plans  for  the 
war  memorial  that  Rockhurst-on-the-Sound  is 
goin'  to  put  up,  one  of  these  days,  to  show  what 
we  think  of  our  gallant  soldier  boys  who  an- 
swered the  call  so  nobly  when  it  was  a  case 
of  beatin'  back  the  Hun  and — and  all  that  sort 
of  thing. 

I  kind  of  hand  it  to  myself,  too,  that  I  was 
spielin'  it  out  some  eloquent.  Course,  I  might 
have  been  quotin'  kind  of  free  from  the  Rev. 
Pedders.  You  see,  he's  chairman  of  our  com- 
mittee, and  not  half  an  hour  before  he'd  been 
readin'  over  to  me  his  draft  of  the  inscription. 
"In  grateful  memory  of  what  they  did  and 
dared  for  us, ' '  was  the  way  it  started  off.  Swell 
stuff,  take  it  from  me.  Sort  of  makes  you  warm 
up  under  your  vest  and  get  dim  in  the  eyes. 
And  I'd  told  her  what  the  subscription 
amounted  to  up  to  date. 

* '  Perfectly  splendid ! ' '  says  Sadie.  *  *  And,  by 
the  way,  Shorty,  I  wish  you  would  put  in  an 
order  for  those  bedding  plants.  Here  it  is  after 

279 


280     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

the  first  of  June  and  those  flower  beds  haven't 
been  filled  yet.  *  * 

Isn't  that  just  like  a  woman?  When  you're 
all  blown  up  with  patriotic  gratitude  and — and 
so  on  she  has  to  kick  in  with  a  reminder  of  some 
piffling  little  thing  like  that  which  you've  let 
slip.  Shows  where  their  minds  run — never 
higher  than  the  attic  windows.  But  what's  the 
use  debatin'  such  points.  They  wouldn't  under- 
stand. So  I  just  hunches  my  shoulders  and 
starts  for  the  telephone.  Might  as  well  do  it 
right  off  before  I  forgot. 

And  I  expect  it  was  looking  up  the  name  of 
that  big  greenhouse  firm  in  Portchester  that 
reminded  me  of  ex-Corporal  Buck  Kinney. 
Let's  see,  wasn't  that  where  Bucky  had  started 
in  to  work  when  he'd  been  sent  back  from 
France  and  turned  loose  from  the  army?  And 
hadn't  he  opened  up  a  little  hothouse  business 
of  his  own  at  his  place  down  on  the  marshes? 
Seems  to  me  he  had.  Maybe  he  'd  have  the  very 
stuff  we  wanted.  Might  put  it  in  cheaper,  too. 
Anyway,  it  would  be  easy  to  jump  in  the  car 
and  run  down  there  to  see.  Besides,  it  had  been 
a  month  or  so  since  I'd  had  a  talk  with  Bucky. 
Most  likely  I  could  get  him  to  dig  up  another 
one  of  them  war  yarns.  You  know  he  can  spill 
the  real  thing,  Bucky,  for  he  was  through  a 
lot  of  it ;  won  the  D.S.  medal,  and  all  that. 

Well,  I  finds  him  makin'  hard- work  motions 


"TRAZE  BEANS"  FOE  BUCKY  281 

with  a  spade,  standin'  hip  deep  in  a  drainage 
ditch  that  he's  diggin'.  He  seems  glad  of  an 
excuse  to  climb  out  and  scrape  some  of  the  mud 
off  his  boots  and  hands. 

"No,"  says  he,  "I  expect  I  ain't  got  much 
you'd  want — a  few  geraniums  and  salvia. 
Didn't  go  in  for  beddin'  plants  very  heavy  this 
year.  I  was  plannin'  mostly  on  lettuce  and 
cucumbers,  but  they  sort  of  petered  out.  That 
old  steam  heatin'  plant  I  put  in  wouldn't  work 
and  a  lot  of  the  stuff  froze  on  me  while  I  was 
patchin'  it  up.  I  was  hoping  I  could  blow  my- 
self to  a  new  boiler  next  fall,  but  I  dunno's  I 
can.  It — it's  kind  of  hard  scratchin'." 

"  Still  got  your  job  with  the  greenhouse 
people,  ain't  you?"  I  asks. 

He  shakes  his  head  discouraged.  "They  laid 
me  off  a  month  ago,"  says  he.  "Got  in  a  new 
foreman,  a  Heinie.  When  he  found  out  I'd 
been  across  with  the  A.E.F.  he  gave  me  the 
quick  dump." 

"Huh!"  says  I.  "That's  what  I  call  a  raw 
deal.  Didn't  you  put  up  a  howl  at  the  office?" 

"Tried  to,"  says  Bucky,  "but  they  backed 
up  Myers.  So  I've  been  doin'  the  best  I  could 
here." 

It  wasn't  much  of  an  outfit  to  make  a  living 
with,  for  a  fact.  Bucky  explains  that  he  didn't 
have  the  capital  to  build  his  hothouses  right. 
Besides,  this  soil  down  on  the  marsh  was  mostly 


282     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

sour  and  he  needed  a  lot  of  chemicals  to  cure  it. 
If  he  could  do  that  it  would  be  just  right  for 
bulbs — narcissus,  dahlias,  crocus,  gladioli,  and 
so  on;  and  if  he  was  able  to  lay  in  a  stock  for 
next  spring  he  thought  he  could  make  a  good 
thing  of  it. 

"Have  you  tried  'em  down  at  the  bank?" 
says  I. 

" Nothing  doing,"  says  he.  "Old  Dishler 
wouldn't  lend  me  a  dollar." 

"Wouldn't,  eh?"  says  I,  scratchin'  my  head. 
I'd  just  remembered  how  it  was  the  Hon.  Hi 
Dishler  who'd  made  that  spread  eagle  speech 
when  we  welcomed  the  boys  home,  and  had 
dragged  Bucky  up  on  the  platform  and  patted 
him  on  the  back  while  he  told  the  folks  what  a 
hero  he  was. 

Course,  he  looked  different  then.  He  was 
right  off  the  transport,  wearin'  his  new  uniform 
with  the  gold  service  stripes,  his  medal,  and  his 
divisional  insignia.  Lately  he'd  been  goin' 
around  in  old  overalls  and  rubber  boots.  And 
as  he  leads  the  way  up  to  the  porch  of  the  little 
shack  where  he  lives  with  the  old  folks,  and 
slumps  down  in  a  rickety  chair,  you'd  hardly 
suspect  he  ever  went  out  under  shell  and 
machine  gun  fire  to  drag  back  one  of  his 
wounded  men. 

"It's  kind  of  too  bad,"  he  goes  on.  "I  know 
I've  got  the  right  dope  on  the  business.  You 


"TRAZE  BEANS"  FOR  BUCKY   283 

see,  there's  goin'  to  be  a  big  demand  for  bulbs 
next  season,  on  account  of  the  war  havin'  put 
a  crimp  in  the  importin'  game  for  so  long. 
Come  from  Holland  and  Belgium  mostly,  and 
they're  just  beginning  again.  I  got  a  circular 
from  an  importin'  house  only  the  other  day  and 
wrote  in  to  get  their  prices.  Funny  thing,  too. 
They  had  Sunderbeeke  stuff.  Sunderbeeke. 
That's  about  forty  kilometers  southeast  of  Dun- 
kirk." 

"Been  there,  have  you?"  I  suggests. 

"I  should  say  I  had,"  says  Bucky.  "That's 
where  we  got  our  first  dose  of  front  line  work. 
They  brigaded  us  with  the  Frenchies,  in  reserve 
at  the  start,  but  then  we  were  moved  up  to  take 
over  what  was  supposed  to  be  a  quiet  sector. 
Maybe  it  was  once,  but  after  some  of  our  boys 
got  to  cuttin'  loose  at  everything  they  saw  the 
Boches  got  busy — snipers,  machine  guns,  trench 
mortars.  "VVe  sure  stirred  'em  up. 

"Rummy  hole,  this  Sunderbeeke  spot. 
Couldn't  have  been  much  of  a  town  to  begin 
with,  but  after  a  couple  of  years  of  bombard- 
ment it  was  a  mess.  Not  a  whole  buildin'  left, 
and  the  town  hall  and  such  places  were  just 
piles  of  brick.  Great  shell  holes  in  the  street. 
And  every  night  reg'lar  at  7.30  the  Huns  gave 
it  forty  minutes  of  strafing,  just  to  show  they 
could  still  register  on  it,  I  expect.  At  that  there 
was  folks  livin'  there  still.  Just  stickin* 


around.  What  they  could  find  to  do,  or 
what  they  lived  on  is  by  me.  I  remember 
one  old  guy  special.  Say,  he  was  a  bird,  he 
was." 

Bucky  stops  to  indulge  in  a  chuckle.  Then, 
he  goes  on.  "Crawled  out  of  a  cellar  one  day 
when  I  was  out  with  a  salvage  detail.  A  tall, 
thin,  whiskered  old  relic.  His  toes  was  stickin' 
out  of  his  shoes,  his  shirt  looked  like  it  was 
made  out  of  a  window  shade,  and  his  hands 
were  like  claws.  Yet  he's  wearin'  a  battered 
silk  lid,  if  you  please,  and  a  long  black  coat. 
Carried  a  gold-headed  cane,  too.  Almost  as  if 
he'd  been  got  up  for  a  masquerade.  'Howdy, 
Grandpop,'  says  I.  'Where's  the  party  at?' 
And  blamed  if  he  don't  come  back  at  me  in 
straight  English.  He  ain't  sore  or  anything  at 
my  guyin'  him.  Says  how  glad  he  is  to  see  us 
Americans  on  the  job  at  last  and  that  now  he 
knows  the  Huns  will  be  driven  back  where  they 
belong. 

' '  Yea-uh !  had  quite  a  chat  with  the  old  boy. 
Queer  old  scout.  Just  as  dignified  in  them  duds 
as  if  he'd  had  on  full  evenin'  dress.  Told  me 
how  he'd  been  right  there,  ever  since  the  Huns 
began  throwin'  shells  into  the  place.  Said  he 
had  a  couple  of  sons  in  the  muss,  but  he  hadn't 
heard  from  either  of  'em  in  over  a  year.  He'd 
lost  the  old  lady,  too.  Piece  of  shrapnel  through 
the  window.  He'd  been  gassed  once  himself, 


"TRAZE  BEANS"  FOR  BUCKY   285 

but  had  got  over  it.  And  when  I  asks  how  he 
scrapes  up  enough  to  live  on  he  just  hunches 
his  shoulders.  'One  doesn't  live,'  says  he,  'one 
endures.'  Didn't  look  like  he'd  had  a  square 
meal  for  months. 

"Well,  I  kept  seem'  him  around  every  day  or 
so.  Once  I  carted  out  half  a  loaf  of  white  bread 
to  him.  Say,  you  should  have  seen  them  old 
eyes  of  his  shine.  His  claw  fingers  trembled  so 
he  could  hardly  grab  it.  He  stops  only  long 
enough  to  take  off  his  old  silk  lid,  and  beg  my 
pardon  polite,  and  then  he  squats  right  down 
in  the  doorway  of  the  nearest  deserted  house 
and  goes  to  it.  Hungry !  Say,  I  hope  I  never 
work  up  an  appetite  like  that. 

"Afterwards  I  used  to  sneak  out  other  stuff 
to  him — a  little  bag  of  sugar,  a  knuckle  of  ham, 
a  tobacco  tin  full  of  butter.  I  almost  got  kissed 
for  the  butter.  'You  Americans  are  wonderful 
people,' says  he.  I  didn't  deny  it.  'I  am  told,' 
he  goes  on,  'that  among  your  private  soldiers 
are  many  wealthy  men,  even  millionaires.' 

*  Sure,'  says  I.    'I'm  one  myself !'    I  wanted  to 
see  what  kind  of  a  rise  that  I  would  get  out  of 
him.     Off  comes  the  plug  hat  and  he  bends 
nearly  double.    'I  am  honored,  M'sieu,'  says  he. 

*  Don't  mention  it,'  says  I. 

"Then  he  wants  to  know  if  my  people  made 
their  fortune  in  gold  mines  or  railroads! 
'Nothing  like  that,'  says  I.  'Flour.'  'Ah!' 


286     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

says  he,  not  quite  gettin'  me.  'In  flowers. 
Then  you  are  what  they  call  in  America  a  florist 
king,  yes?  Your  hothouses  are  great,  exten- 
sive!' 'You  bet,'  says  I.  'End  to  end  they'd 
about  reach  from  here  to  Berlin,  with  enough 
glass  in  'em  to  roof  in  your  whole  country.' 
Say,  I  sure  fed  it  to  him  strong  and  he  don't 
gag  over  swallowin'  a  single  detail.  I  tells  him 
how  we  have  a  trolley  track  runnin'  through  the 
middle  for  the  hands  to  go  back  and  forth  on 
and  that  we  sometimes  cut  as  high  as  a  million 
roses  a  day,  at  a  dollar  a  rose.  He  holds  up 
both  hands  at  that.  'Marvelleuse!'  says  he. 
'And  you  reside  in  a  great  chateau  somewhere?' 
'Yep!'  says  I.  'Overlooking  the  works  and 
Long  Island  Sound.  Come  over  and  see  us 
some  time.'  And,  say,  the  old  bird  actually 
writes  down  my  name  and  address." 

''What  if  he  should  show  up  some  day?"  I 
suggests. 

"Him!"  says  Buck  Kinney.  "Fat  chancel 
Most  likely  he's  starved  to  death  long  before 
this.  Even  if  he  hasn't  I  don't  expect  he  could 
raise  the  price  of  a  jitney  ride  to  the  next  town. 
Seemed  to  know  a  little  about  the  florist  busi- 
ness himself.  Maybe  he'd  had  a  little  bulb 
patch  somewhere  around.  He  sure  was  an  easy 
mark  when  it  came  to  kiddin',  though.  Saw  the 
Loot  passin'  one  day  and  wants  to  know  who 
he  is.  'Why,  that's  young  Mike  Rockefeller,' 


"TRAZE  BEANS"  FOR  BUCKY  287 

says  I.  'You  know,  the  one  who  owns  all  the 
gasoline  in  the  world.'  And  off  comes  the  old 
silk  lid  again.  Yea-uh!  He  helped  pass  the 
time  away  in  Sunderbeeke. " 

I  couldn't  help  joinin'  Bucky  in  a  chuckle, 
and  after  promisin'  to  see  if  I  couldn't  get  some 
of  our  new  made  war-plutes  interested  enough 
to  help  finance  his  little  enterprise,  I  starts 
back.  Just  as  I  was  swingin'  into  the  Post 
Road  I  gets  the  hail  from  someone  in  a  taxi. 
Don't  often  see  one  of  them  blue  and  green  cabs 
so  far  from  Broadway,  so  I  pulls  up.  Leanin' 
through  the  window  is  a  spruce,  dignified  old 
party  with  a  neat  trimmed  full  beard.  He's 
wearin'  a  shiny  new  tall  hat,  frock  coat,  and 
eyeglasses  on  a  wide  black  ribbon.  Sort  of  for- 
eign and  distinguished  lookin'. 

"Pardon,"  says  he,  "but  could  you  direct  me 
to  the  chateau  of  M.  Kinney?" 

"Eh?"  says  I,  gawpin'.  "You  don't  mean 
Buck  Kinney?" 

1 '  It  may  be, ' '  says  he.  ' '  M.  Kinney,  who  was; 
a  soldier." 

* '  That 's  him, ' '  says  I.  ' '  Did  you  say  chateau 
or  shanty?" 

"Shanty?"  says  he,  startin'  puzzled.  "Ah, 
I  comprehend.  That  is  American  for  chateau, 
perhaps  ? ' ' 

"Not  exactly,"  says  I.  "You  see,  we  don't 
have  many  chateaus  over  here,  but  shanties  .  - 


288     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

Well,  that's  a  better  description  of  what  Bucky 
lives  in." 

"May  I  ask,"  goes  on  the  old  boy,  "is  it  sit- 
uated near  to  his  hothouses?" 

"Eight  next  door,"  says  I. 

"Tiens!"  says  he.  "He  will  be  the  one. 
Permit  me  .to  mention  that  I  am  M.  Sterpin,  of 
Sunderbeeke,  Belgium,  and  if  you  will  be  so 
kind  as  to  indicate  to  my  driver " 

"I'll  do  better  than  that,"  says  I,  grinnin' 
wide.  "I've  just  come  from  talkin'  with  Bucky 
myself  and  as  it's  kind  of  a  blind  road  I'll 
pilot  you  down  there." 

Course,  I  wasn't  goin'  to  miss  anything  like 
that.  First  off  it  struck  me  as  kind  of  weird 
that  he  should  show  up  just  then,  so  soon  after 
Bucky 'd  been  givin'  me  the  tale.  But  then  I 
remembers  about  the  circular,  and  how  Bucky 
had  written,  and  it  don't  seem  so  strange. 

He  was  still  sittin'  slumped  in  the  chair  on 
the  little  porch  almost  hangin*  over  the  creek, 
and  when  he  sees  who  piles  out  of  the  taxi  it 
got  his  eyes  buggin'  like  a  pair  of  brass  door- 
knobs. 

"Hey,  Bucky,"  I  sings  out.  "I  guess  here's 
an  old  friends  of  yours." 

"But — but  is  there  not  some  mistake?"  says 
M.  Sterpin,  starin'  around  at  the  old  shack, 
the  muddy  little  tidewater  creek,  and  the 
marshes. 


"TRAZE  BEANS"  FOB  BUCKY  289 

"We'll  see,"  says  I.  "Anyhow,  this  is  ex- 
Corporal  Buck  Kinney.  How  about  it,  Bucky, 
don't  you  recognize  Mr.  Sterpin?" 

"Why,"  says  Bucky,  rubbin'  his  chin,  "I 
can't  say  I  do.  Voice  does  sound  kind  of 
familiar  though,  but " 

"And  yours !"  breaks  in  the  old  boy.  "It  is 
the  American  soldier.  You  will  recall  me — M. 
Sterpin,  of  Sunderbeeke. " 

And  you  should  have  seen  Bucky 's  mouth 
come  open.  "What-a-at?"  says  he.  "The  one 
I  told  all  that  to  about  how  I  was " 

"Mais  oui!"  says  Sterpin,  shruggin'  his 
shoulders  and  spreadin*  out  his  hands.  "So 
these  are  the  great  hothouses,  this  the  chateau, 
eh!" 

At  first  Bucky  flushes  up  and  looks  foolish. 
Then  he  gets  a  grip  on  himself  and  grins.  "I 
expect  I  was  throwin'  the  bull  a  bit." 

"Meaning,"  suggests  Sterpin,  "tha,t  you 
exaggerated?  So  it  would  appear." 

"You  seemed  to  like  it,  you  know,"  goes  on 
Bucky.  "But  you  fooled  me  some,  yourself. 
Why,  you  were  got  up  like  a  panhandler.  What 
was  the  idea!" 

* '  True, ' '  says  the  old  boy.  '  *  But  it  was  from 
necessity.  What  would  you  do?  When  the 
enemy  may  come  at  any  moment  one  does  not 
wish  to  appear  other  than  as  a  poor  beggar. 
And  I  was  so  in  fact.  Yes,  there  was  the  gold 


290     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

I  had  buried  deep.  But  when  one  cannot  buy 
food  with  gold  of  what  use  is  it?  So  there  I 
chose  to  stay,  in  the  ruins  of  my  home,  in  sight 
of  my  war-torn  fields. ' ' 

Then  he  goes  on  to  tell  how,  when  it  was  all 
over,  he  had  dug  up  his  cash,  patched  his  house, 
and  started  in  to  rebuild  his  smashed  business. 
He'd  had  a  ton  or  so  of  fancy  bulbs  stored  away 
in  vaults  so  his  first  move  had  been  to  come 
over  here,  shake  up  things  in  his  New  York 
branch,  and  try  to  unload.  His  idea  was  to  call 
on  all  the  old  customers  and  rustle  up  as  many 
new  ones  as  possible.  That's  how  he  happened 
to  run  across  this  letter  of  Buck  Kinney's. 
Course,  that  reminds  him  of  the  American  sol- 
dier whose  hothouses  would  stretch  nearly  to 
Berlin  and  with  visions  of  placin'  a  big  order 
he  comes  right  out. 

"It  seems  that  I  have,  as  we  say,  swallowed 
the  fish,"  he  remarks,  gazin'  'round. 

He  don't  act  grouchy  over  it.  I  thought  I 
saw  almost  a  twinkle  in  them  shrewd  old  eyes 
of  his.  As  for  Bucky,  while  he 's  still  some  red 
in  the  ears,  he's  bluffin'  it  through  well. 

"You  people  over  there  were  easy,  all  right," 
says  he.  "Just  because  we  scattered  francs 
careless  you  suspected  we  was  all  recruited 
right  on  Fifth  Avenue.  It  was  the  first  time  I 
ever  had  a  chance  to  pass  for  a  plute,  and  I 
expect  I  played  it  for  all  it  was  worth.  If  I'd 


"TRAZE  BEANS"  FOR  BUCKY   291 

had  a  hunch  you'd  ever  follow  it  up  maybe  I'd 
have  drawn  it  milder.  Too  bad  though,  you 
blew  in  all  that  taxi  fare  just  on  my  account." 

"One  always  pays  to  learn,"  says  Sterpin. 
"  Besides,  I  have  not  forgotten  the  white  bread, 
the  sugar,  the  butter." 

"Aw,  them  things!"  says  Bucky.  "I  swiped 
'em  off  the  mess  table." 

1 '  I  understand, ' '  says  the  other.  *  *  Yet  except 

for  those  timely  gifts Well,  who  knows? 

And  as  I  have  come  I  may  as  well  view  your 
establishment,  even  if  it  is  not  large  enough  to 
roof  all  Belgium.  Hein?" 

"Well,  traze  beans,  as  you  say,"  says  Bucky, 
springm'  some  of  his  doughboy  French. 
"There's  the  whole  of  it,"  and  he  waves  his 
hand  at  the  10  x  20  shack  with  a  half  dozen 
second-hand  window  sash  let  into  the  top. 

The  old  boy  insists  on  walkin'  out  and  in- 
spectin'  it  solemn.  He  even  pokes  his  fingers 
into  the  soil  of  the  beds  and  smells  of  it.  Then 
he  shakes  his  head. 

*  *  All  very  crude, ' '  says  he.  ' '  It  requires  lime 
and  phosphates.  There  should  be  ventilation 
as  well  as  heat.  This  does  not  appear  sufficient, 
either,"  and  he  jerks  his  thumb  at  the  rusty 
boiler. 

"I'm  wise  to  that,"  says  Bucky.  "It's  all  I 
could  buy  with  the  money  I  had,  though. ' ' 

"But  I  had  heard,"  goes  on  Sterpin,  "that 


292     SHORTY  MoCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

your  government  had  voted  many  millions  to 
aid  her  returned  heroes." 

" Maybe,"  says  Bucky.  "All  that  was 
handed  to  me  was  my  $60  bonus  and  my 
discharge  papers  when  they  turned  me 
loose." 

"There  are  your  townspeople,  however," 
puts  in  the  old  boy,  *  *  those  for  whom  you  went 
across  the  sea  to  face  the  cannon.  Surely,  they 
have  not  forgotten  so  quickly!" 

"I  dunno,"  says  Bucky.  "Shorty  McCabe 
here  has  helped  me  some,  but  outside  of  him 
there  ain't  nobody  been  around  much.  Any- 
way, they  ain't  come  and  forced  any  millions  on 
me.  Not  that  I  was  lookin'  for  anything  like 
that.  All  I  want  is  a  chance,  a  start." 

"True,"  says  Sterpin.  "And  might  I  ask 
what  are  these  plans  of  yours?" 

At  which  Bucky  sketches  out  how,  if  he  had 
the  stock,  he  could  supply  the  local  market  with 
potted  plants  and  cut  flowers;  also  where  he 
wanted  to  add  on  to  his  houses,  and  about  the 
new  heater. 

"Ah,  yes!"  says  the  old  gent  from  Sunder- 
beeke,  twirlin*  his  glasses  thoughtful.  "Well, 
it  shall  be  done.  Yes,  at  once." 

"Eh?"  says  Bucky,  gawp  in'  at  him. 

"You  shall  build  on  our  credit,"  says  M. 
Sterpin.  "I  will  arrange  that  at  the  office. 


"TRAZE  BEANS"  FOE  BUCKY  293 

From  our  store  of  bulbs  you  may  have  what 
you  wish,  too.  And  you  shall  repay  as  you  are 
able." 

"What!"  says  Bucky.  "You — you  mean 
you'll  take  a  chance  on  backin'  me?  Me!" 

*  *  Why  not ! ' '  says  the  other.  * '  One  must  find 
new  customers,  and  the  field  hereabouts  should 
be  a  good  one.  Perhaps  we  shall  not  lose  on 
the  venture,  after  all.  If  we  do — Pouff!  It 
goes  that  way,  business.  To-morrow  you  will 
receive  a  statement  of  deposit  to  your  credit. 
Then  you  may  make  your  start." 

"Well,  I'll  be  jiggered!"  gasps  Bucky. 
"Say,  that's  what  I  call  mighty  decent  of  you, 
Mr.  Sterpin." 

"Too  amiable!"  protests  the  old  boy.  "We 
Belgians  are  not  much  different  from  your  own 
people.  We  have  an  eye  on  the  main  chance, 
for  the  most  part,  but  now  and  then  some  of  us 
remember  who  it  was  that  helped  rid  us  of  the 
Boche.  Yes.  Then  there  was  that  white  bread. 
Well,  what  do  you  expect  when  one  has  eaten 
only  bran  and  potatoes  for  two  years?  Z-z-zut! 
It  is  but  fair  that  I  should  make  some  small 
return.  My  best  wishes  for  your  success,  M. 
Kinney." 

And  he  leaves  Bucky,  his  mouth  still  open, 
diggin'  into  the  black  dirt  with  the  toe  of  his 
rubber  boot. 


294     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

"You  know,  Bucky,"  I  suggests,  "we're 
plannin'  to  put  your  name  in  bronze  letters  up 
on  the  monument. '  ' 

"Huh!"  says  Bucky,  not  gettin'  excited  at 
all 

"I  get  you,"  says  I.  "You're  thinkin'  how 
much  nicer  it'll  be  to  be  able  to  write  it  on  a 
check.  Eh?" 

And  Bucky  he  straightens  up,  throws  out  his 
chest,  and  grins. 


xvm 

LITTLE  SULLY   COMES  THROUGH 

I  EXPECT  I  was  feelin'  a  bit  more  chipper  than 
usual.  Maybe  I  was  a  trifle  chesty.  Anyway, 
things  had  been  runnin'  smooth  at  the  Physical 
Culture  Studio  with  a  lot  of  my  old  reg'lars 
back,  a  sportin'  friend  of  mine  had  paid  up  fifty 
that  I'd  staked  him  to  over  a  year  ago,  and 
coming  out  on  the  5.06  two  of  my  neighbors  had 
insisted  I  must  stand  for  another  term  on  the 
School  Board.  Besides,  there  was  Sadie 
waitin'  at  the  station  for  me  with  the  little 
roadster. 

"Well,  how's  the  girl?"  says  I,  swingin'  off 
the  smoker. 

You  get  that  girl  stuff,  don't  you?  It's  a 
good  line  to  pull,  believe  me,  even  if  most  of 
the  things  you  got  at  your  tin  weddin'  have 
been  sent  to  the  discard  and  there  are  young- 
sters around  the  house  who  are  always  callin* 
her  "Maw."  And  as  a  rule  it  gets  Sadie 
workin'  up  that  crooked  smile  of  hers. 

But  not  this  time.  I  could  tell  at  a  glance 
that  Sadie  has  something  heavy  sittin'  on  her 


296     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

mind.  It  ain't  like  her  to  keep  it  back,  either. 
She  unloads  it  at  once. 

" Shorty,"  says  she,  "Mr.  Dishler  wants  you 
to  call  at  the  office  as  you  go  by." 

"The  Hon.  Hi,  eh?"  says  I.  "Oh,  very 
well." 

"He — he  seemed  rather  serious  about  it," 
suggests  Sadie. 

"Of  course,"  says  I.  "He  would.  He's 
that  kind." 

"I  hope  you  haven't  offendp'l  him  again, 
Shorty,"  says  she. 

"That's  a  whale  of  a  hope,"  says  I,  "when 
my  mission  in  life  seems  to  be  to  do  things  that 
give  the  Hon.  Hi  Dishler  shudders  down  the 
spine." 

It's  a  sad  fact.  I  ain't  boastin'  about  it. 
Maybe  I  ought  to  be  hangin'  my  head  as  I  admit 
it.  But  somehow  if  I  should  find  I  was  pleasin' 
the  Hon.  Hi  consistent  I'd  begin  to  suspect  I 
wasn't  runnin'  true  to  form.  Fat  chance, 
though.  I  suppose  we're  about  as  different  as 
we  could  be  and  still  belong  to  the  same  human 
race.  I  know  Dishler  would  take  his  oath  to 
that  and  I'm  afraid  I  wouldn't  deny  it,  either. 
And  yet  here  we  have  to  live  in  the  same  town 
when  we  might  have  half  the  map  between  us. 
I  expect,  though,  that  wherever  I  went  I'd  find 
a  Hi  Dishler,  or  somebody  like  him;  and  per- 
haps he  couldn't  settle  anywhere  without  run- 


LITTLE  bULLY  COMES  THROUGH    297 

nin*  into  a  Shorty  McCabe.  Besides,  life 
wouldn't  be  half  so  interesting  if  it  wasn't  like 
that. 

* '  Cheer  up,  Sadie, ' '  says  I.  * '  Maybe  it 's  only 
a  note  I've  endorsed  for  somebody  and  forgot 
about ;  or  he  might  want  to  make  another  offer 
for  our  shore  frontage." 

That's  the  careless,  happy-go-lucky  mood  I 
was  in  when  I  rolls  up  in  front  of  the  Rockhurst 
Development  Company's  offices,  next  door  to 
the  bank.  I  even  chuckles  a  little  when  he  lets 
on  not  to  see  the  friendly  wave  I  gives  him,  but 
marches  out  to  the  curb  stiff  and  dignified  and 
lifts  his  black  derby  an  inch  or  so  off  his  curly 
gray  hair. 

By  rights  he  never  should  have  quit  wearin'  a 
silk  lid.  Course,  I  know  it  ain't  being  done  now 
on  week  days,  except  by  auctioneers  and  funeral 
directors,  but  nothing  else  in  the  line  of  head- 
gear quite  goes  with  them  white  side  whiskers 
of  his.  They  went  out  of  date  before  the  shiny 
tiles  did,  but  the  Hon.  Hi  couldn't  bear  to  part 
with  his.  I  hope  he  never  does,  for  as  he  stands 
— frock  coat,  gray  spats,  and  his  eyeglasses 
anchored  to  him  with  a  wide  ribbon — he  needs 
no  tag  or  label.  He  is  our  Prominent  Citizen. 
Any  new  commuter  would  know  that  at  a 
glance.  Also  that  here  was  one  of  the  Upper 
Classes. 

"Want  to  see  me,  did  you!"  I  asks. 


298     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

"Yes,"  says  he.  "And  I  wish  you  to  see 
something,  too.  Will  you  turn  off  the  Post 
Eoad  just  this  side  of  the  Nut  and  Bolt  Works? 
I  will  follow  in  my  own  car." 

"Huh!"  says  I  to  Sadie  as  we  starts  on. 
"What  the  deuce?" 

But  Sadie  don't  have  the  answer.  I  can  tell 
by  the  way  she  looks,  though,  that  she's  sure 
I've  made  another  bad  break  somehow,  either 
socially,  politically  or  otherwise. 

When  we  get  to  this  side  street  that  runs 
down  as  far  as  the  railroad  I  stops  just  at  the 
beginning  of  the  line  of  new  billboards  that  the 
Civic  Society  has  done  so  much  grumblin'  over. 
Here  about  two  acres  have  been  fenced  in,  with 
three  sides  covered  with  advertising  signs.  I 
was  just  noticin'  where  a  20-foot  gap  had  been 
burned,  wipin'  out  a  perfectly  good  corset  ad. 
and  eatin'  into  a  "Drink  Whisko"  announce- 
ment, when  the  Hon.  Hi  catches  up  with  us. 

"Well,  McCabe,"  says  he,  "what  do  you 
think  of  that?" 

"Oh,"  says  I,  "it  does  kind  of  mess  up  the 
landscape,  but " 

"I  am  not  referring  to  the  signboards," 
breaks  in  Dishler,  "but  to  the  damage  which 
has  been  done  to  them." 

"Oh,  I  get  you,"  says  I.  "The  burned  areat 
How  did  it  catch!" 

"It  did  not  catch,"  says  he.    "It  was  a  case 


LITTLE  SULLY  COMES  THROUGH    299 

of  incendiarism.  The  fence  was  set  on  fire, 
maliciously.'* 

"Well,  well!"  says  I.  "I  remember  hearin* 
the  alarm.  One  evenin'  early  in  the  week, 
wasn't  it?  Not  such  a  fierce  catastrophe, 
though.  I  should  say  about  $25  would 
cover " 

"That  is  hardly  the  point,"  says  he.  "The 
question  is,  McCabe ;  can  property  be  burned  up 
at  will  in  this  community?" 

"Say,  what's  the  grand  idea?"  I  comes  back 
at  him.  "Don't  think  I'm  any  arson  expert,  do 
you?  Why  ask  me?" 

"Because  it  may  develop  that  you  are  more 
interested  in  this  affair  than  you  suspect,"  says 
he. 

"Eh?"  says  I,  gawpin'. 

"This  fire,"  he  goes  on,  "was  deliberately 
set  by  a  gang  of  boys,  and  I  am  sorry  to  say, 
McCabe,  that  we  have  good  cause  to  believe  that 
your  son  was  among  them,  if  not  the  actual 
leader." 

"Sully!"  gasps  Sadie,  clutchin'  my  arm 
panicky. 

'  *  There,  there ! ' '  says  I.  ' '  Let 's  hear  the  rest 
of  this.  What  makes  you  think  my  boy  was 
in  it,  Dishler?" 

"This,  for  one  item,"  says  he,  producin'  a 
document  envelope  and  fishin'  out  of  it  a  small 
sized  handkerchief. 


300     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

Sure  enough,  there  in  the  corner  is  one  of  the 
markers  Sadie  sews  on  all  of  Sully 's  things. 

"That  was  found,  with  an  empty  gasoline 
can,  in  the  ditch  here,"  says  the  Hon.  Hi. 
" Smell  it,  please." 

I  didn't  need  to  hold  it  very  near  to  get  the 
scent  of  gas  on  it,  either.  Things  was  lookin' 
squally  for  the  house  of  McCabe  just  then. 

"I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it,"  says  Sadie. 

"Mothers  seldom  do  believe  such  things," 
says  Dishler,  with  one  of  them  undertaker 
smiles  of  his.  "Unfortunately,  though,  facts 
are  facts.  But  this  is  not  all.  The  attempt  to 
destroy  several  hundred  dollars  worth  of  prop- 
erty having  been  discovered  promptly  and  the 
damage  limited,  these  youthful  outlaws  re- 
turned some  time  during  last  night  and  com- 
mitted a  second  offense.  If  you  will  step  down 
the  street  a  short  distance,  McCabe,  I  will  show 
you. ' ' 

Well,  I  stepped.  So  did  Sadie.  The  Hon.  Hi, 
he  stepped  on  ahead.  And  at  about  the  fourth 
billboard  he  stops  and  waves  his  hand  dramatic, 
' '  There ! ' '  says  he.  * '  The  second  outrage. ' ' 

I'll  admit  it  wasn't  real  polite  of  me  to 
snicker  just  then,  'specially  when  you  consider 
who  was  submittin'  the  exhibit.  But  it  slips  out 
before  I  could  smother  it.  And  I  expect  it'll  be 
a  long  day  before  I  can  think  of  what  he  was 
pointin'  out  so  indignant  without  a  chuckle. 


LITTLE  SULLY  COMES  THROUGH     301 

For  one  thing,  it  was  done  so  ingenious.  This 
particular  billboard  was  devoted  to  advertisin' 
Monkey  Brand  laundry  soap.  And  there  was 
the  monk  painted  vivid  and  life  size,  with  the 
upper  half  of  him  sawed  out  and  stickin'  up 
above  the  top  of  the  board.  You've  seen  the 
same  thing,  and  read  the  motto:  "Always  look 
for  him  on  both  sides  of  the  bar — Mason's 
Monkey. ' ' 

"Well,  what  had  somebody  done  but  taken  one 
of  the  Hon.  Hi's  old  campaign  posters,  that  was 
scattered  'round  so  liberal  when  he  ran  for 
the  Assembly  a  couple  years  back,  cut  out  the 
head  and  pasted  it  neat  over  the  monkey's  face. 
So  there  he  is,  white  sideboards  and  all,  beamin' 
down  on  us  with  that  condescendin'  "Now-my- 
good-people"  look  of  his,  with  the  monk's  hairy 
arm  and  claw  fingers  holdin'  out  a  cake  of 
laundry  soap.  It's  a  scream,  that's  all.  The 
wonder  is  I  didn't  let  out  a  haw-haw  instead  of 
a  mere  snicker. 

"You  find  it  humorous,  do  you?"  demands 
Dishler,  gettin'  pink  clear  up  into  his  side- 
boards. 

"Don't  expect  me  to  weep  over  it,  I  hope?" 
says  I.  "Course,  it's  kind  of  raw,  'specially 
that  'Look  for  him  on  both  sides  of  the  bar' 
advice,  with  you  such  a  strong  prohibitionist. 
Eh?" 

But  the  Hon.  Hi  never  could  see  a  joke.    "Do 


302     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

I  understand,  McCabe,"  says  he,  stiffening 
"that  you  approve  of  such  a  scurrilous  attack 
on  a  man  of  my  standing?  That  all  you  can 
see  in  this  outrage  is  a  cheap  jest!" 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  go  so  far  as  that,"  says  I. 
"It's  a  bit  rough  on  you,  I  expect,  being  made  a 
monkey  of  so  public,  but  it  ain't  any  killin' 
matter  at  that.  Just  shows  you've  got  your- 
self disliked  by  somebody  or  other  who  took  a 
lot  of  pains  to  be  funny  at  your  expense.  All 
you  got  to  do  is  have  somebody  climb  up  and 
tear  it  down." 

"Precisely,  McCabe,"  says  he.  "That  is 
why  I  brought  you  out  here." 

"Me?"  Bays! 

He  nods.  "The  young  ruffians  who  set  the 
fire,"  he  goes  on,  "were  the  same  ones  who 
returned  and  did  this.  As  your  son  was  among 
them  I  am  holding  you  responsible  for  his  acts. 
I  will  give  you  three  minutes  to  remove  that." 

""Well,  that  ought  to  be  time  enough,"  says  I, 
"providin'  I  felt  like  climbin'.  But  somehow 
I  don't.  Not  just  yet,  anyway.  I  ain't  so  sure 
you've  got  a  clear  case  against  Sully.  Course, 

if  you  have Well,  that's  different.  But 

I've  got  to  look  into  this  case  myself  first." 

The  Hon.  Hi  agrees  to  that.  "And  when  you 
do  find  that  he  helped  perpetrate  this  outrage," 
he  goes  on,  "I  shall  expect  you  to  give  him  the 
sound  thrashing  that  he  deserves." 


LITTLE  SULLY  COMES  THROUGH     303 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  says  I.  "I  ain't 
much  of  a  hand  at  whaling  youngsters.  Never 
had  to,  so  far.  Still,  settin'  fires  is  kind  of 
serious,  and  if  it  was  done  out  of  pure  cussed- 
ness " 

* '  Ah ! ' '  says  the  Hon.  Hi.  ' { Now  you  are  tak- 
ing the  proper  viewpoint.  I  think  two  or  three 
hours  will  be  long  enough  for  you  to  investi- 
gate. And  I  trust  you  to  act  promptly.  I  shall 
call  at  your  house  about  9  o'clock  this  evening 
to  have  you  assure  me  that  the  punishment  has 
been  thoroughly  administered.  The  matter  of 
settling  the  material  damage  can  be  taken  up 
later." 

With  that  ultimatum  he  stalks  off,  jumps  into 
his  car,  and  leaves  Sadie  and  me  starin'  at  each 
other  blank. 

"The  idea!"  says  she.  "Why  should  Sully 
do  things  like  that?  And  how  could  he,  any- 
way? It's  absurd.  He  might  have  lost  that 
handkerchief  anywhere,  you  know." 

"Still,"  says  I,  "it  looks  like  it  was  up  to  me 
to  do  a  little  sleuth  work  on  this.  There's  no- 
denyin'  that  the  youngsters  Sully  runs  with  are 
a  lively  bunch  and  that  wherever  they  go  he's 
generally  in  the  lead.  Just  why  they  should 
land  on  Dishler  so  hard,  though,  is  what  gets 
me.  Maybe  it  was  some  other  gang,  after  all." 

When  I  got  home  the  first  thing  I  did  was  to 
look  for  a  five-gallon  gasoline  can  that  I  remem- 


304     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

bered  was  about  half  full  in  the  corner  of  the 
garage.  It  was  gone.  Then  I  spots  a  light- 
weight 15-foot  ladder  that  I  keeps  hangin'  along 
one  side  of  the  garage.  There's  red  clay  on  the 
bottom  ends  of  the  ladder,  the  kind  that  I'd 
noticed  thrown  up  where  they'd  sunk  the  up- 
rights for  the  billboards. 

4 'Huh!"  says  I  to  myself. 

There  wasn't  much  doubt  but  that  the  Hon. 
Hi  had  the  goods  on  Sully,  and  as  I  makes  a 
line  for  the  house  I  admit  I  was  some  hectic 
under  the  collar.  What  sort  of  young  terrier 
was  we  bringin'  up,  anyway?  Here  for  two 
nights  he'd  been  A/W.O.L.  and  when  we  thought 
he  was  sleepin'  peaceful  in  his  little  nursery  cot 
he  was  out  traipsin'  around  with  a  gang  of 
young  village  cut-ups,  settin'  fires,  defacin'  bill- 
boards, and  gettin'  mixed  up  with  the  Lord 
knows  what  other  kinds  of  crime.  It  begun  to 
look  as  though  I  was  more  or  less  of  a  flivver  in 
the  stern  parent  role. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  I'd  been  kind  of  proud  of 
my  record,  for  in  all  of  little  Sully 's  ten  years 
I  couldn't  remember  but  twice  when  I'd  had  to 
lay  him  across  my  knee.  Not  that  I  mean  to 
give  out  how  he  was  any  angel  child.  He's  a 
reg'lar  boy,  Sully,  and  just  as  full  of  it  as  the 
next  one,  if  not  fuller.  But  up  to  now  he  hadn't 
pulled  anything,  barrin'  them  two  breaks,  that 
seemed  to  call  for  the  hot  hand  exercise. 


LITTLE  SULLY  COMES  THROUGH     305 

Course,  there 'd  been  little  things,  such  as  his 
mother  could  handle  by  a  bread-and-milk 
supper  sentence  or  an  hour's  solitary  confine- 
ment. And  the  few  times  when  the  charges 
were  more  serious  and  he'd  been  turned  over 
to  me  I'd  generally  found,  after  gettin'  his 
side  of  it,  that  the  case  wasn't  so  bad  as  it 
seemed.  That  was  my  system,  a  square  deal 
and  a  chance  to  put  in  a  full  defense.  We'd 
just  sit  down  quiet  and  talk  it  over,  Sully  and 
me,  and  he'd  never  failed  to  come  across  with 
the  whole  story,  straight  and  clean.  But  now — 
I  was  wonderin'  where  I  could  cut  a  birch 
switch. 

"What  do  you  think?"  asks  Sadie  anxious, 
as  I  comes  in. 

"I  guess  it's  a  verdict  of  guilty  on  both 
counts,"  says  I.  "I  found  more  evidence. 
Where  is  he?" 

"Having  supper  in  there,"  says  she,  pointin' 
towards  the  dining  room  alcove. 

That's  another  part  of  my  system.  Sully 
knows  that  eating  supper  with  his  little  sister 
at  6  ain't  a  case  of  must.  He  can  if  he  wants 
to,  or  he  can  stay  up  and  have  dinner  with  us 
an  hour  later.  But  generally  he's  too  tired  and 
hungry  to  wait.  Anyway,  he  suits  himself,  and 
there's  no  howlin'  around. 

I  walks  in  and  pulls  a  chair  up  to  the  Kttle 
table.  Maybe  I  gives  him  the  cold  eye  as  I 


306     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

it.  But  that  don't  feaze  him  in  the  least.  He's 
about  as  much  afraid  of  me  as  he  is  of  old 
Towzer. 

1  'Hullo,  Pop!"  says  he,  through  a  mouthful 
of  bread  and  jam. 

Some  husk  for  a  ten-year-old,  Sully  is,  you 
know.  He's  got  a  chest  on  him  like  a  nail  keg 
already,  and  he's  well  muscled.  Baseball  and 
swimmin'  and  football  accounts  for  that.  Also 
he  shows  a  good  healthy  color  through  the  tan 
and  freckles.  Even  the  reddish  curly  hair  is 
faded  on  top  from  being  in  the  sun  so  much. 
And  them  wide  blue  eyes  of  his — just  like 
Sadie's — are  clear  and  steady.  Who  would 
think,  to  look  at  him,  that  he  'd  slip  out  at  night 
and  start  a  fire  just  out  of  deviltry? 

"Sully,"  says  I.  "I've  been  having  a  talk 
with  Mr.  Dishler." 

' ' Old  Dishy,  eh ? ' '  says  he.  ' ' Yar-r-r !  He 's 
an  old  stiff,  he  is." 

"Think  so?' 'says  I.    "Why?" 

"Cause  he  is,"  says  Sully.  "Ask  any  of  the 
boys.  Reg'lar  crab." 

"But  you  haven't  anything  'special  against 
him,  have  you?"  I  asks. 

< '  Ain  't  we,  though ! "  says  Sully.    ' l  Huh !  ' ' 

"Well,  let  it  come,"  says  I.  "Just  what  in 
particular?" 

Sully  squirms  a  bit  in  his  chair,  as  if  he  was 
uneasy  about  sayin*  any  more,  but  after  a 


second  or  so  he  straightens  up.  "What  did  he 
want  to  go  chase  us  off'n  our  ball  field  for?" 
he  demands. 

"When  was  that?"  says  I.    "Where?" 

"Week  ago  Sat 'day,"  says  Sully.  "Right  in 
the  middle  of  the  fifth,  when  we  had  the  Leather 
Necks  'leven-nine  and  th'  bases  full.  Comes 
drivin'  up  with  a  couple  of  special  cops  and 
gives  us  th'  chase.  Tries  to  throw  a  scare  into 
us  about  puttin'  us  all  in  th'  coop  if  we  ever 
come  back.  You  know  where  we  play,  down  by 
th '  Nut 'n' Bolt?" 

"Yes,  I  remember,"  says  I.  "You  boys  have 
been  using  that  field  for  quite  a  spell,  haven't 
you?" 

"Always  been  a  di'mond  there,"  says  Sully. 
"Long  as  I  been  goin'  to  school.  And  year 
before  last  didn't  our  team  spend  a  lot  to  have 
the  outfield  graded  off,  and  put  in  a  rubber 
plate?  That's  why  we  couldn't  buy  uniforms 
that  season.  And  now,  just  because  his  bum 
land  comp'ny  has  fenced  it  all  in  with  billboards 
he  comes  and  gives  us  the  run,  busts  up  our 
game,  and  calls  us  hoodlums.  The  old  grouch ! ' ' 

"H-m-m-m!"  says  I.  "Couldn't  you  find 
some  other  field,  though?" 

"Where,  Pop?"  demands  Sully. 

I  couldn't  say.  Rockhurst  ain't  built  up  so 
thick.  There  seems  to  be  plenty  of  land  around, 
but  when  you  come  to  look  it  over  I  expect 


308     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

you'll  find  somebody's  claimin'  to  use  most  of 
it.  Places  like  the  Boomer-Day  estate,  where 
they  got  over  thirty  acres  fenced  in  with  a  stone 
wall. 

"Course,"  I  goes  on,  "that  may  seem  a  bit 
rough  on  you  youngsters,  but  I  expect  Mr. 
Dishler  didn't  know.  Maybe  if  you'd  explained 
the  case " 

"Yar-r-rl"  says  Sully.  "Didn't  me  and 
Slippy  Dugan  go  down  to  the  bank  that  next 
Monday  afternoon  and  try  to  show  him?  He 
wouldn't  let  us  get  in  a  word.  Calls  in  that  big 
roughneck  janitor  and  has  us  yanked  out  by  the 
collar.  'Throw  these  young  rascals  out, 
Mide,'  says  he.  And  Slippy 's  old  man  saw  him 
bein'  fired  and  gives  him  a  lickin'  for  it.  That's 
what  we  got  from  old  Dishy." 

"And  then?"  says  I. 

With  that  Sully  pinks  up  in  the  ears  and 
begins  to  fidget.  I  waits,  watchin'  him  without 
a  word,  until  he  looks  up  again.  And  once  more 
he's  meetin'  me  square  in  the  eyes. 

"Would  you  have  stood  for  anything  like 
that,  Pop,"  says  he,  "without  tryin'  to  get 
even?  The  boys  put  it  up  to  me  and  I 

Well,  I'll  tell  you  the  whole  thing.  You  see, 
j » 

"Wait,  Sully,"  I  breaks  in.  "It'll  keep, 
won't  it?  Then  maybe  I'd  better  not  know  too 
much  about  what  you  did.  Not  just  now,  any- 


LITTLE  SULLY  COMES  THKOUGH     309 

way.  Understand,  I  ain't  sayin'  whether  you 
should  have  done  whatever  you  did  or  not.  But 
startin'  a  fire  is  kind  of  serious  work.  Might 
mean  jail.  So  I'm  hoping  you  didn't." 

"But  I  didn't,  Pop.  Honest!"  says  Sully. 
"I  tried  to  tell  'em.  Course,  though,  when 
they " 

"Yes,  I  think  I  understand,"  says  I.  "As 
for  the  other — pastin'  Dishler 's  face  on  the 
monkey — that  sounds  more  like  your  work, 
although  I  don't  figure  just  how  you  could  do 
it  so  well." 

"  Slippy 's  old  man  does  wall  paperin',"  sug- 
gests Sully. 

"So  he  does,"  says  I.  "And  he  might  have 
done  that  job  while  he  was  sleep-walkin',  eh? 
Or  he  might  have  left  some  paste  around  handy. 
But  I  guess  you  boys  had  better  call  it  quits  on 
Dishler.  And  no  more  night  prowlin'  from  you, 
young  man.  Understand?" 

"All  right,  Pop,"  says  Sully.  "I'll  lay  off 
it." 

And  I  leaves  him  to  finish  his  supper. 

"Well?"  says  Sadie,  who's  been  out  in  the 
livin'  room  all  this  time  with  her  fingers 
gripped,  listenin'. 

"Extenuatin'  circumstances,"  says  I. 

"But — but  he  didn't  do  all  these  dreadful 
things  Mr.  Dishler  accuses  him  of,  did  he?"  she 
asks. 


310     SHORTY  McCABE  GETS  THE  HAIL 

"Not  half,  "says  I. 

"There!"  says  Sadie.  "I  just  knew  he 
didn't." 

And  after  dinner  she  calls  down  from  up- 
stairs for  me  to  come  take  a  look.  "He's 
asleep  already,"  says  she.  "See?" 

And  say,  with  his  curly  head  snuggled  down 
on  the  pillow  and  his  long  lashes  quiet  on  his 
cheeks,  and  a  peaceful  smile  playin'  around  the 
corners  of  his  lips,  he  does  look  more  or  less 
like  a  young  cherub.  As  we  stands  watchin' 
him  I  hears  the  door  buzzer.  Tellin'  Sadie  to 
stay  there  I  tiptoes  out  easy.  It's  the  Hon.  Hi, 
on  hand  to  the  minute. 

"Well,  McCabe,"  says  he,  "have  you  given 
him  that  thrashing?" 

"Not  yet,  "says  I. 

"What?"  says  he.  "Then  when  do  you  in- 
tend  " 

"Not  until  I  catch  him  do  in'  something  worse 
than  I'd  do  if  I  was  in  his  place,"  says  I. 

"Very  well,"  says  he,  shruggin'  his  shoul- 
ders. "You  know  the  alternative.  It  will  be  a 
somewhat  disagreeable  duty  for  me,  but  I  shall 
make  a  charge  of  malicious  mischief." 

"Think  you  can  prove  it?"  says  I. 

"I  shall  try,"  says  he.  "You  may  expect  an 
officer  up  in  the  morning. ' ' 

"Dishler,"  says  I,  "have  you  thought  out 
just  what  kind  of  a  figure  you're  goin'  to  cut 


LITTLE  SULLY  COMES  THROUGH     311 

prosecutin'  a  ten-year-old  boy  in  police  court? 
And  another  thing:  You  know  them  billboards 
your  company  put  up  ain't  any  too  popular. 
You  and  the  billboards  are  goin'  to  be  thrown 
up  prominent  in  this  case,  if  it  comes  off.  A 
lot  of  people  who  haven't  seen  you  posin'  as 
Mason's  monkey  are  goin'  to  hear  all  the  de- 
tails. Some  of  'em  will  snicker.  Then  about 
the  boys'  ball  field.  Wasn't  that  kind  of  hog- 
gish of  you  to  run  'em  off?  What  harm  was 
they  doin',  anyway!  It  strikes  me,  Dishler, 
that  if  I'd  been  the  one  to  block  puttin'  through 
that  school  playground  scheme,  as  you  did  last 
spring,  I'd  have  thought  twice  about  chasin' 
the  youngsters  off  a  vacant  lot." 

Maybe  you  can  guess  that  by  this  time  the 
Hon.  Hi  has  worked  up  quite  a  neck  color.  The 
white  side  whiskers  looked  'most  like  they  was 
sproutin'  out  of  red  flannel. 

"I  shall  run  my  own  affairs  in  my  own  way," 
says  he,  kind  of  hoarse  and  throaty.  "If  you 
want  to  save  the  young  rascal  from  arrest  you 
must  punish  him  yourself." 

"I  suppose  you'd  like  to  see  the  thrashin' 
done?  Right  now,  eh?"  says  I. 

"That  would  be  most  satisfactory,"  says  he. 

"Oh,  well,"  says  I,  sighin'.  "He's  upstairs. 
Come  along." 

And  before  the  Hon.  Hi  could  back  out  I've 
towed  him  in  beside  the  cot  where  little  Sully 


is  smilin'  at  the  funny  things  in  his  dreams. 
I  don't  know  how  long  it's  been  since  Hi  Dish- 
ler  has  had  a  close-up  of  a  sleepin'  youngster. 
I  believe  he  has  a  grown-up  son  somewhere  out 
West,  and  I  think  I  heard  'em  say  he  lost  an- 
other years  back.  But  both  of  'em  must  have 
been  about  Sully 's  age  once.  Also,  while  the 
Hon.  Hi  is  kind  of  stiff-necked  as  a  bank  presi- 
dent, and  more  or  less  of  a  shark  when  it  comes 
to  real  estate  deals,  he's  been  a  daddy,  too. 
And  as  I  was  admittin'  just  now,  Sully  asleep 
is  easier  to  look  at  than  any  stained  glass 
cherub  you  ever  saw. 

"What  do  you  say?"  says  I.  "Shall  I  wake 
him  up  and  thrash  him  now? ' ' 

"Eh?"  says  Dishler,  startin'  as  though  I'd 
punched  him  in  the  ribs.  "No,  no,  McCabe.  I 
— I've  been  rather  hasty,  I  fear.  Rather  an  ass, 
too."  And  he  starts  backin'  out. 

"You  see,"  says  I,  as  we  gets  down  to  the 
front  hall,  "the  boys  was  kind- of  sore.  It  was 
the  only  place  they  had  to  play  ball  in.  Now  if 
you  could  sort  of  give  out  that  they  might " 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course  they  may,"  he  breaks  in. 
"Until  we  give  them  a  regular  playground,  at 
least.  I — I  think  you're  right  about  that, 
Shorty." 

"Say,"  says  I.  "You're  goin'  to  see  a 
tickled  lot  of  kids  out  there  if  you  should  drop 
around  some  afternoon.  Which  reminds  me  of 


LITTLE  SULLY  COMES  THROUGH     313 

something  else.  That  soap  ad.  I'm  ready  to 
climb  now.  Got  your  car  here  1  Good !  Wait  a 
minute  until  I  get  a  ladder  and  I'll  go  along 
with  you." 

When  I  lugs  out  the  little  ladder  he  takes  a 
squint  at  it  in  the  moonlight. 

"Think  that's  long  enough?"  says  he. 

' 'Sure,"  says  I,  " unless  it's  shrunk  since  the 
other  night. ' ' 

"Oh !"  says  he,  and  if  it  hadn't  been  the  Hon. 
Hi  Dishler  I  should  have  said  he  followed  it 
with  a  chuckle. 


THE   END 


WMUTHBWHB3IONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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